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THE    WORKS 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY. 


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II. 


THE   WORKS 


OF 


WILLIAM  MAKEPEACE  THACKERAY, 


'iV    TWELVE     VOLUMES. 
VOLUME    11. 


THE    HISTORY    OF    PENDENNIS. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    COMPANY. 

1872. 


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(P-^  C^^y^      r 


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THE     HISTORY 


OF 


PENDENNIS. 

HIS  FORTUNES  AND  MISFORTUNES,  HIS  FRIENDS 
AND  HIS  GREATEST  ENEMY. 


BY 

WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


WITH    A    FRONTISPIECK 


BOSTON: 
JAMES     R.    OSGOOD    &    COMPANY 

I  872. 


PR 
Al 

TO  DR.  JOHN  ELLIOTSON. 

My  dear  Doctor — 

Thirteen  months  ago,  when  it  seemed  likely  that  this 
story  had  come  to  a  close,  a  kind  friend  brought  you  to  my  bed- 
side, whence,  in  all  probability,  I  never  should  have  risen  but  for 
your  constant  watchfulness  and  skill.  I  like  to  recall  your  great 
goodness  and  kindness  (as  well  as  many  acts  of  others,  showing 
quite  a  surprising  friendship  and  sympathy)  at  that  time,  when 
kindness  and  friendship  were  most  needed  and  welcome. 

And  as  you  would  take  no  other  fee  but  thanks,  let  me  record 
them  here  in  behalf  of  me  and  mine,  and  subscribe  myself 

Yours  most  sincerely  and  gratefully, 

W.  M.  THACKERAY. 


PREFACE. 


F  this  kind  of  composition,  of  which  the  two  years'  product 
is  now  laid  before  the  pubhc,  fail  in  art,  as  it  constantly  does 
i:  and  must,  it  at  least  has  the  advantage  of  a  certain  truth  and 
j  honesty,  v/hich  a  work  more  elaborate  might  lose.    In  his  constant 
I  communication  with  the  reader,  the  writer  is  forced  into  frankness 
I  of  expression,  and  to  speak  out  his  own  mind  and  feelings  as 
'  they  urge  him.     Many  a  slip  of  the  pen  and  the  printer,  many  a 
I  word  spoken  in  haste,  he  sees  and  would  recall  as  he  looks  over 
his  volume.     It  is  a  sort  of  confidential  talk  between  writer  and 
!  reader,  which  must  often  be  dull,  must  often  flag.     In  the  course 
of  his  volubility,  the  perpetual  speaker  must  of  necessity  lay  bare 
his  own  weaknesses,  vanities,  peculiarities.     And  as  we  judge  of 
a  man's  character,  after  long  frequenting  his  society,  not  by  one 
speech,  or  by  one  mood  or  o]3inion,  or  by  one  day's  talk,  but  by 
the  tenor  of  his  general  bearing  and  conversation  ;  so  of  a  writer 
who  delivers  himself  up  to  you  perforce  unreservedly,  you  say,  Is 
he  honest  ?     Does  he  tell  the  truth  in  the  main  ?     Does  he  seem 
actuated  by  a  desire  to  find  out  and  speak  it  ?     Is  he  a  quack, 
who  shams  sentiment,  or  mouths  for  effect  ?     Does  he  seek  popu- 
larity by  claptraps  or  other  arts  ?     I  can  no  more  ignore  good 
fortune  than  any  other  chance  which  has  befallen  me.     I  have 
found  m.any  thousands  more  readers  than  I  ever  looked  for,     I 
have  no  right  to  say  to  these,  You  shall  not  find  fault  with  my 
art,  or  fall  asleep  over  my  pages  ;  but  I  ask  you  to  believe  that 
this  person  writing  strives  to  tell  the  truth.     If  there  is  not  that, 
there  is  nothing. 

Perhaps  the  lovers  of  "  excitement "  may  care  to  know,  that 
this  book  began  with  a  very  precise  plan,  which  was  entirely  put 
aside.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  you  were  to  have  been  treated, 
and   the  writer's  and   the  publisher's  pocket  benefited,  by  the 


X  PRE  FACE. 

recital  of  the  most  active  horrors.  What  more  exciting  than  a 
ruflian  (with  many  achnirable  virtues)  in  St.  Giles's,  visited  con- 
stantly by  a  young  lady  from  Belgravia  ?  What  more  stirring  than 
the  contrasts  of  society?  the  mixture  of  slang  and  fashionable 
language  ?  the  escapes,  the  battles,  the  murders  ?  Nay,  up  to 
nine  o'clock  this  very  morning,  my  poor  friend,  Colonel  Altamont, 
was  doomed  to  execution,  and  the  author  only  relented  when  his 
victim  was  actually  at  the  window. 

The  "exciting"  plan  was  laid  aside  (with  a  very  honourable 
forbearance  on  the  part  of  the  publishers),  because,  on  attempting 
it,  I  found  that  I  failed  from  want  of  experience  of  my  subject  ; 
and  never  having  been  intimate  with  any  convict  in  my  life,  and 
the  manners  of  ruffians  and  gaol-birds  being  quite  unfamiliar  to 
me,  the  idea  of  entering  into  competition  with  M.  Eugene  Sue 
was  abandoned.  To  describe  a  real  rascal,  you  must  make  him 
so  horrible  that  he  would  be  too  hideous  to  show ;  and  unless  tlie 
painter  paints  him  fairly,  I  hold  he  has  no  right  to  show  him  at  all. 

Even  the  gentlemen  of  our  age — this  is  an  attempt  to  describe 
one  of  them,  no  better  nor  worse  than  most  educated  men — even 
these  we  cannot  show  as  they  are,  with  the  notorious  foibles  and 
selfishness  of  their  lives  and  their  education.  Since  the  author  of 
Tom  Jones  was  buried,  no  writer  of  fiction  among  us  has  been 
permitted  to  depict  to  his  utmost  power  a  man.  We  must  drape 
him,  and  give  him  a  certain  conventional  simper.  Society  will 
not  tolerate  the  Natural  in  our  Art.  Many  ladies  have  remon- 
strated and  subscribers  left  me,  because  in  the  course  of  the  story, 
I  described  a  young  man  resisting  and  affected  by  temptation. 
My  object  was  to  say,  that  he  had  the  passions  to  feel,  and  the 
manliness  and  generosity  to  overcome  them.  You  will  not  hear 
— it  is  best  to  know  it — what  moves  in  the  real  world,  what  passes 
in  society,  in  the  clubs,  colleges,  mess-rooms, — what  is  the  life 
and  talk  of  your  sons.  A  little  more  frankness  than  is  customary 
has  been  attempted  in  this  story;  with  no  bad  desire  on  the 
writer's  part,  it  is  hoped,  and  with  no  ill  consequence  to  any 
reader.  If  truth  is  not  always  pleasant  ;  at  any  rate  truth  is  best, 
from  whatever  chair — from  those  whence  graver  writers  or  thinkers 
argue,  as  from  that  at  which  the  story-teller  sits  as  he  concludes 
his  labour,  and  bids  his  kind  reader  farewell. 

Kensington,  Nov.  zbth,  1850. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  TAGS 

I.  Shows  how  First  Love  may  interrupt  Breakfast  i 

II.     A  Pedigree  and  other  Family  Matters 6 

III.  In  which  Pendennis  appears  as  a  very  Young  Man 

INDEED 21 

IV.  Mrs.  Haller    33 

V.     Mrs.  Haller  at  Home 41 

VI.     Contains  both  Love  and  War 54 

VII.     In  which  the  Major  makes  his  Appearance 65 

VIII.  In  which  Pen  is  kept  waiting  at  the  Door,  while 

THE  Reader  is  informed  who  little  Laura  was  73 

IX.     In  which  the  Major  opens  the  Campaign 84 

X.     Facing  the  Enemy    91 

XL     Negotiation 97 

XII.     In  which  a  Shooting  Match  is  proposed  106 

XIII.  A  Crisis 114 

XIV.  In  which  Miss  Fotheringay  makes  a  new  Engage- 

ment      122 

XV.    The  Happy  Village 129 

XVI.  Which  concludes  the  First  Part  of  this  History  139 

XVII.     Alma  Mater 155 

XVIII.     Pendennis  of  Boniface   164 

XIX.     Rake's  Progress 1 77 

XX.     Flight  after  Defeat  1S5 

XXI.     Prodigal's  Return    192 

XXII.     New  Faces    201 

XXIII.  A  Little  Innocent   217 

XXIV.  Contains  both  Love  and  Jealousy    226 

XXV.     A  House  full  of  Visitors 235 

XXVI.     Contains  some  Ball-practising   24S 

XXVII.     Which  is  both  Quarrelsome  and  Sentimental  256 

XXVIII.     Babylon 269 

XXIX.     The  Knights  of  the  Temple   280 

XXX.     Old  and  New  Acquaintances 2SS 

XXXI.  In  which  the  Printer's  Devil  comes  to  the  Door  300 

XXXII.  Which  is  passed  in  the  Neighbourhood  of   Lud- 

GATE  Hill 312 

XXXIII.  In  which  the  History  still  hovers  about  Fleet 

Street -322 


COXTENTS. 


CHAPTHR  PAGE 

XXXIV.    A  Dinner  in  the  Row 328 

XXXV.     The  "Pall  Mall  Gazette"  338 

XXXVI.     Where  Pen  appears  in  Town  and  Country 344 

XXXVII.     In  which  the  Sylph  reappears 358 

XXXVIII.     In    which  Colonel    Altamoxt    appears    and  dis- 
appears   366 

XXXIX.     Relates  to  ]Mr.  Harry  Foker's  Affairs 375 

XL.     Carries  the  Reader  both  to  Richmond  and  Green- 
wich   386 

XLI.     Contains  a  Novel  Incident 395 

XLII.     Alsatia  406 

XLIII.     In   which    the    Colonel    narrates    some    of    his 

Adventures  413 

XLIV.    A  Chapter  of  Conversations  424 

XLV.     Miss  Amory's  Partners  437 

XLVI.    Monseigneur  s'amuse 448 

XLVII.     A  Visit  of  Politeness 462 

XLVIII.     In  Shepherd's  Inn    468 

XLIX.     In  or  near  the  Temple  Garden 474 

L.     The  Happy  Village  again 483 

LI.     Which  had  very  nearly  been  the  last  of  the  Story  4S9 

LII.     A  Critical  Chapter 500 

LIII.     Convalescence ., 510 

LIV.     Fanny's  Occupation's  gone  522 

LV,     In  which  Fanny  engages  a  new  Medical  Man  533 

LVI.     Foreign  Ground 544 

LVII.     "Fairoaks  to  let"  555 

LVIII.     Old  Friends 565 

LIX.     Explanations  577 

LX.    Conversations 5S4 

LXI.    The  Way  of  the  World    597 

LXII.     Which  accounts  perhaps  for  Chapter  LXI 611 

LXIII.     Phillis  and  Corydon  624 

LXIV.     Temptation  629 

LXV.     In  which  Pen  begins  his  Canvass 640 

LXVI.     In  which  Pen  begins  to  doubt  his  Election   649 

LXVII.     In  which  the  Major  is  bidden  to  stand  and  deliver  661 
LXVIII.     In  which  the  Major  neither  yields  his  Money  nor 

HIS  Life 671 

LXIX.     In  WHICH  Pendennis  counts  his  Eggs 679 

LXX.     Fiat  Justitia   685 

LXXI.     In  which  the  Decks  begin  to  clear    693 

LXXII.    Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sam  Huxter  701 

LXXIII.     Shows   how  Arthur  had  better  have  taken   a 

Return-Ticket    7 1 1 

LXXIV.     A  Chapter  of  Match-Making 71S 

LXXV.     Exeunt  Omnes    726 


P  EN  D  E  N  N  I  S. 


CHAPTER   I. 

SHOWS   HOW   FIRST   LOVE   MAY   INTERRUPT   BREAKFAST. 

ONE  fine  morning  in  the  full  London  season,  Major  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis  came  over  from  his  lodgings,  according  to  his  custom, 
to  breakfast  at  a  certain  Club  in  Pall  Mall,  of  which  he  was  a  chief 
ornament.  At  a  quarter  past  ten  the  Major  invariably  made  his 
appearance  in  the  best  blacked  boots  in  all  London,  with  a  checked 
morning  cravat  that  never  was  rumpled  until  dinner  time,  a  buff  waist- 
coat which  bore  the  crown  of  his  sovereign  on  the  buttons,  and  linen 
so  spotless  that  Mr.  Brummel  himself  asked  the  name  of  his  laundress, 
and  would  probably  have  employed  her  had  not  misfortunes  compelled 
that  great  man  to  fly  the  country.  Pendennis's  coat,  his  white  gloves, 
his  whiskers,  his  very  cane,  were  perfect  of  their  kind  as  specimens  of 
the  costume  of  a  military  man  en  reiraite.  At  a  distance,  or  seeing 
his  back  merely,  you  would  have  taken  him  to  be  not  more  than  thirty 
years  old :  it  was  only  by  a  nearer  inspection  that  you  saw  the  facti- 
tious nature  of  his  rich  brown  hair,  and  that  there  were  a  few  crows- 
feet  round  about  the  somewhat  faded  eyes  of  his  handsome  mottled 
face.  His  nose  was  of  the  Wellington  pattern.  His  hands  and 
wristbands  were  beautifully  long  and  white.  On  the  latter  he  wore 
handsome  gold  buttons  given  to  him  by  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Duke  of  York,  and  on  the  others  more  than  one  elegant  ring,  the 
chief  and  largest  of  them  being  emblazoned  with  the  famous  arms  of 
Pendennis. 

He  always  took  possession  of  the  same  table  in  the  same  corner 
of  the  room,  from  which  nobody  ever  now  thought  of  ousting  him. 
One  or  two  mad  wags  and  wild  fellows  had,  in  former  days,  endeavoured 
to  deprive  him  of  this  place  ;  but  there  was  a  quiet  dignity  in  the 
Major's  manner  as  he  took  his  seat  at  the  next  table,  and  surveyed 

I 


2  PENDENNIS, 

the  interlopers,  which  rendered  it  impossible  for  any  man  to  sit  and 
breakfast  under  his  eye  ;  and  that  table — by  the  fire,  and  yet  near 
the  window — became  his  own.  His  letters  were  laid  out  there  in 
expectation  of  his  arrival,  and  many  was  the  young  fellow  about  town 
who  looked  with  wonder  at  the  number  of  those  notes,  and  at  the  seals 
and  franks  which  they  bore.  If  there  was  any  question  about  etiquette, 
society,  who  was  married  to  whom,  of  what  age  such  and  such  a  duke 
was,  Pendennis  was  the  man  to  whom  everj'  one  appealed.  Marchion- 
esses used  to  drive  up  to  the  Club,  and  leave  notes  for  him,  or  fetch 
him  out.  He  was  perfectly  affable.  The  young  men  liked  to  walk 
with  him  in  the  Park  or  down  Pall  ]\Iall ;  for  he  touched  his  hat  to 
ever)'body,  and  every  other  man  he  met  was  a  lord. 

The  Major  sate  down  at  his  accustomed  table  then,  and  while  the 
waiters  went  to  bring  him  his  toast  and  his  hot  newspaper,  he  surveyed 
his  letters  through  his  gold  double  eye-glass,  and  examined  one  pretty 
note  after  another,  and  laid  them  by  in  order.  There  were  large 
solemn  dinner  cards,  suggestive  of  three  courses  and  heavy  con- 
versation ;  there  were  neat  little  confidential  notes,  conveying  female 
entreaties  ;  there  was  a  note  on  thick  official  paper  from  the  Marquis 
of  Steyne,  telling  him  to  come  to  Richmond  to  a  little  party  at  the  Star 
and  Garter ;  and  another  from  the  Bishop  of  Ealing  and  Mrs.  Trail, 
requesting  the  honour  of  Major  Pendennis's  company  at  Ealing  House, 
all  of  which  letters  Pendennis  read  gracefully,  and  with  the  more  satis- 
faction, because  dowry,  the  Scotch  surgeon,  breakfasting  opposite  to 
him,  was  looking  on,  and  hating  him  for  having  so  many  invitations, 
which  nobody  ever  sent  to  dowry. 

These  perused,  the  Major  took  out  his  pocket-book  to  see  on  what 
days  he  was  disengaged,  and  which  of  these  many  hospitable  calls  he 
could  afford  to  accept  or  decline. 

He  threw  over  Cutler,  the  East  India  Director,  in  Baker  Street, 
in  order  to  dine  with  Lord  Steyne  and  the  little  French  party  at  the 
Star  and  Garter — the  Bishop  he  accepted,  because,  though  the  dinner 
was  slow,  he  liked  to  dine  with  bishops — and  so  went  through  his  list 
and  disposed  of  them  according  to  his  fancy  or  interest.  Then  he 
took  his  breakfast  and  looked  over  the  paper,  the  gazette,  the  births 
and  deaths,  and  the  fashionable  intelligence,  to  see  that  his  name  was 
down  among  the  guests  at  my  Lord  So-and-so's  fete,  and  in  the  inter- 
vals of  these  occupations  carried  on  cheerful  conversation  with  his 
acquaintances  about  the  room. 

Among  the  letters  which  formed  Major  Pendennis's  budget  for 
that  morning  there  was  only  one  unread,  and  which  lay  solitary  and 
apart  from  all  the  fashionable  London  letters,  with  a  country  post- 
mark and  a  homely  seal.  The  superscription  was  in  a  pretty  delicate 
female  hand,  marked  "  immediate  "  by  the  fair  ^^Titer ;  yet  the  Major 


PENDENNIS.  3 

had,  for  reasons  of  his  own,  neglected  up  to  the  present  moment  his 
humble  rural  petitioner,  who,  to  be  sure,  could  hardly  hope  to  get  a 
hearing  among  so  many  grand  folks  who  attended  his  levee.  The 
fact  was,  this  was  a  letter  from  a  female  relative  of  Pendennis',  and 
while  the  grandees  of  her  brother's  acquaintance  were  received  and 
got  their  interview,  and  drove  off,  as  it  were,  the  patient  country 
letter  remained  for  a  long  time  waiting  for  an  audience  in  the  ante- 
chamber, under  the  slop-basin. 

At  last  it  came  to  be  this  letter's  turn,  and  the  Major  broke  a  seal 
with  "  Fairoaks  "  engraved  upon  it,  and  "  Clavering  St.  Mary's  "  for  a 
post-mark.  It  was  a  double  letter,  and  the  Major  commenced 
perusing  the  envelope  before  he  attacked  the  inner  epistle. 

"  Is  it  a  letter  from  another  Jook?"  growled  Mr.  dowry,  inwardly. 
'"  Pendennis  would  not  be  leaving  that  to  the  last,  I'm  thinking.'' 

"  My  dear  Major  Pendennis,"  the  letter  ran,  "  I  beg  and  implore 
you  to  come  to  me  im7nediately^' — very  likely,  thought  Pendennis, 
and  Steyne's  dinner  to-day — "  I  am  in  the  greatest  grief  and  per- 
plexity. My  dearest  boy,  who  has  been  hitherto  everything  the 
fondest  mother  could  wish,  is  grieving  me  dreadfully.  He  has  formed 
■ — I  can  hardly  write  it — a  passion,  an  infatuation," — the  Major  grinned 
— "  for  an  actress  who  has  been  performing  here.  She  is  at  least 
twelve  years  older  than  Arthur — who  will  not  be  eighteen  till  next 
February — and  the  wretched  boy  insists  upon  marrying  her." 

"  Hay  !  What's  making ,  Pendennis  swear  now  ? " — Mr.  dowry 
asked  of  himself,  for  rage  and  wonder  were  concentrated  in  the  Major's 
open  mouth,  as  he  read  this  astounding  announcement. 

"  Do,  my  dear  friend,"  the  grief-stricken  lady  went  on,  "  come  to 
me  instantly  on  the  receipt  of  this  ;  and,  as  Arthur's  guardian,  entreat, 
command,  the  wretched  child  to  give  up  this  most  deplorable  resolu- 
tion." And,  after  more  entreaties  to  the  above  effect,  the  writer  con- 
cluded by  signing  herself  the  Major's  "  unhappy,  affectionate  sister, 
Helen  Pendennis." 

"  Fairoaks,  Tuesday "  —  the  Major  concluded,  reading  the  last 
words  of  the  letter — "  A  d — d  pretty  business  at  Fairoaks,  Tuesday  ; 
now  let  us  see  what  the  boy  has  to  say ; "  and  he  took  the  other  letter, 
which  was  written  in  a  great  floundering  boy's  hand,  and  sealed  with 
the  large  signet  of  the  Pendennises,  even  larger  than  the  Major's  own, 
and  with  supplementary  wax  sputtered  all  round  the  seal,  in  token  of 
the  writer's  tremulousness  and  agitation. 

The  epistle  ran  thus — 

"  Fai7-oaks,  Monday,  Midnight. 
"My  dear  Uncle, 

*'  In  informing  you  of  my  engagement  with  Miss  Costigan,  daughter  of 
J.  Chesterfield  Costigan,  Esq.,  of  Costiganstown,  but,  perhaps,  better  known 


4  PENDENNIS. 

to  you  under  her  professional  name  of  Miss  Fotheringay,  of  the  Theatres  Royal 
Drury  Lane  and  Crow  Street,  and  of  the  Nor^vich  and  Welsh  Circuit,  I  am 
aware  that  I  make  an  announcement  which  cannot,  according  to  the  present 
prejudices  of  society  at  least,  be  welcome  to  my  family.  My  dearest  mother, 
on  whom,  God  knows,  I  would  wish  to  inflict  no  needless  pain,  is  deeply 
moved  and  grieved,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  by  the  intelligence  which  I  have  this 
night  conveyed  to  her.  I  beseech  you,  my  dear  Sir,  to  come  down  and  reason 
with  her  and  console  her.  Although  obliged  by  poverty  to  earn  an  honourable 
maintenance  by  the  exercise  of  her  splendid  talents,  Miss  Costigan's  family  is 
as  ancient  and  noble  as  our  own.  When  our  ancestor,  Ralph  Pendennis, 
landed  with  Richard  II.  in  Ireland,  my  ILmily's  forefathers  were  kings  of  that 
country.  I  have  the  information  from  Mr.  Costigan,  who,  like  yourself,  is  a 
military  man. 

"It  is  in  vain  I  have  attempted  to  argue  with  my  dear  mother,  and  prove 
to  her  that  a  young  lady  of  irreproachable  character  and  lineage,  endowed  with 
the  most  splendid  gifts  of  beauty  and  genius,  who  devotes  herself  to  the  exer- 
cise of  one  of  the  noblest  professions,  for  the  sacred  purpose  of  maintaining  her 
family,  is  a  being  whom  we  should  all  love  and  reverence,  rather  than  avoid ; 
— my  poor  mother  has  prejudices  which  it  is  impossible  for  my  logic  to  over- 
come, and  refuses  to  welcome  to  her  arms  one  who  is  disposed  to  be  her  most 
affectionate  daughter  through  life. 

"Although  Miss  Costigan  is  some  years  older  than  myself,  that  circum- 
stance does  not  operate  as  a  barrier  to  my  affection,  and  I  am  sure  will  not 
influence  its  duration.  A  love  like  mine.  Sir,  I  feel,  is  contracted  once  and 
for  ever.  As  I  never  had  dreamed  of  love  until  I  saw  her — I  feel  now  that  I 
shall  die  without  ever  knowing  another  passion.  It  is  the  fate  of  my  life ;  and 
having  loved  once,  I  should  despise  myself,  and  be  unworthy  of  my  name  as  a 
gentleman,  if  I  hesitated  to  abide  by  my  passion  :  if  I  did  not  give  all  where  I 
felt  all,  and  endow  the  woman  who  loves  me  fondly  with  my  whole  heart  and 
my  whole  fortune. 

"  I  press  for  a  speedy  marriage  with  my  Emily — for  why,  in  truth,  should 
it  be  delayed  ?  A  delay  implies  a  doubt,  which  I  cast  from  me  as  unworthy. 
It  is  impossible  that  my  sentiments  can  change  towards  Emily — that  at  any 
age  she  can  be  anything  but  the  sole  object  of  my  love.  Why,  then,  wait? 
I  entreat  you,  my  dear  Uncle,  to  come  down  and  reconcile  my  dear  mother  to 
our  union,  and  I  address  you  as  a  man  of  the  world,  qui  mores  hominum 
vmltortivi  vjdit  et  iirbes,  who  will  not  feel  any  of  the  weak  scruples  and  fears 
which  agitate  a  lady  who  has  scarcely  ever  left  her  village. 

"  Pray  come  do\\'n  to  us  immediately.  I  am  quite  confident  that — apart 
from  considerations  of  fortune — you  will  admire  and  approve  of  my  Emily. 

"  Your  afiectionate  Nephew, 

"Arthur  Pendennis,  Jr." 

When  the  Major  had  concluded  the  perusal  of  this  letter,  his 
countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  such  rage  and  horror  that 
Glowry,  the  surgeon,  felt  in  his  pocket  for  his  lancet,  which  he  always 
carried  in  his  card-case,  and  thought  his  respected  friend  was  going 


PENDENNIS.  5 

into  a  fit.  The  intelligence  was  indeed  sufficient  to  agitate  Pendennis. 
The  head  of  the  Pendennises  going  to  marry  an  actress  ten  years  his 
senior, — the  head-strong  boy  about  to  plunge  into  matrimony.  "  The 
mother  has  spoiled  the  young  rascal,"  groaned  the  Major  inwardly, 
"  with  her  cursed  sentimentality  and  romantic  rubbish.  My  nephew 
marry  a  tragedy  queen !  Gracious  mercy,  people  will  laugh  at  me  so 
that  I  shall  not  dare  show  my  head ! "  And  he  thought  with  an 
inexpressible  pang  that  he  must  give  up  Lord  Steyne's  dinner  at 
Richmond,  and  must  lose  his  rest  and  pass  the  night  in  an  abominable 
tight  mail-coach,  instead  of  taking  pleasure,  as  he  had  promised  him- 
self, in  some  of  the  most  agreeable  and  select  society  in  England. 

He  quitted  his  breakfast-table  for  the  adjoining  writing-room,  and 
there  ruefully  wrote  off  refusals  to  the  Marquis,  the  Earl,  the  Bishop, 
and  all  his  entertainers;  and  he  ordered  his  servant  to  take  places  in 
the  mail-coach  for  that  evening,  of  course  charging  the  sum  which  he 
disbursed  for  the  seats  to  the  account  of  the  widow  and  the  young 
scapegrace  of  whom  he  was  guardian. 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

A  PEDIGREE  AND   OTHER   FAMILY   MATTERS. 

EARLY  in  the  Regency  of  George  the  Magnificent,  there  lived  in 
a  small  town  in  the  west  of  England,  called  Clavering,  a  gentle- 
man whose  name  was  Pendennis.  There  were  those  alive  who 
remembered  having  seen  his  name  painted  on  a  board,  which  was 
surmounted  by  a  gilt  pestle  and  mortar  over  the  door  of  a  very 
humble  little  shop  in  the  city  of  Bath,  where  Mr.  Pendennis  exercised 
the  profession  of  apothecary  and  surgeon;  and  where  he  not  only 
attended  gentlemen  in  their  sick-rooms,  and  ladies  at  the  most  interest- 
ing periods  of  their  lives,  but  would  condescend  to  sell  a  brown-paper 
plaster  to  a  farmer's  wife  across  the  counter — or  to  vend  tooth-brushes, 
hair-powder,  and  London  perfumery. 

And  yet  that  little  apothecary  who  sold  a  stray  customer  a  penny- 
worth of  salts,  or  a  more  fragrant  cake  of  Windsor  soap,  was  a  gentle- 
man of  good  education,  and  of  as  old  a  family  as  any  in  the  whole 
county  of  Somerset.  He  had  a  Cornish  pedigree  which  carried  the 
Pendennises  up  to  the  time  of  the  Druids, — and  who  knows  how  much 
farther  back?  They  had  intermarried  with  the  Normans  at  a  very 
late  period  of  their  family  existence,  and  they  were  related  to  all  the 
great  families  of  Wales  and  Brittany.  Pendennis  had  had  a  piece  of 
University  education  too,  and  might  have  pursued  that  career  with 
honour,  but  in  his  second  year  at  Oxbridge  his  father  died  insolvent, 
and  poor  Pen  was  obliged  to  betake  himself  to  the  pestle  and  apron. 
He  always  detested  the  trade,  and  it  was  only  necessity,  and  the  offer 
of  his  mother's  brother,  a  London  apothecary  of  low  family,  into  which 
Pendennis's  father  had  demeaned  himself  by  marrying,  that  forced 
John  Pendennis  into  so  odious  a  calling. 

He  quickly  after  his  apprenticeship  parted  from  the  coarse-minded 
practitioner  his  relative,  and  set  up  for  himself  at  Bath  with  his  modest 
medical  ensign.  He  had  for  some  time  a  hard  struggle  with  poverty  ; 
and  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  the  shop  in  decent  repair,  and  his 
bed-ridden  mother  in  comfort:  but  Lady  Ribstone  happening  to  be 
passing  to  the  Rooms  with  an  intoxicated  Irish  chairman  who  bumped 
her  ladyship  up  against  Pen's  very  door-post,  and  drove  his  chair-pole 
through  the  handsomest  pink-bottle  in  the  surgeon's  window,  alighted 


PENDENNIS.  7 

screaming  from  her  vehicle,  and  was  accommodated  with  a  chair  in 
Mr.  Pendennis's  shop,  where  she  was  brought  round  with  cinnamon 
and  sal-volatile. 

Mr.  Pendennis's  manners  were  so  uncommonly  gentlemanlike  and 
soothing,  that  her  ladyship,  the  wife  of  Sir  Pepin  Ribstone,  of  Codling- 
bury,  in  the  county  of  Somerset,  Bart.,  appointed  her  preserver,  as 
she  called  him,  apothecary  to  her  person  and  family,  which  was  very 
large.  Master  Ribstone  coming  home  for  the  Christmas  holidays 
from  Eton,  over-ate  himself  and  had  a  fever,  in  which  Mr.  Pendennis 
treated  him  with  the  greatest  skill  and  tenderness.  In  a  word,  he  got 
the  good  graces  of  the  Codlingbury  family,  and  from  that  day  began 
to  prosper.  The  good  company  of  Bath  patronised  him,  and  amongst 
the  ladies  especially  he  was  beloved  and  admired.  First  his  humble 
little  shop  became  a  smart  one :  then  he  discarded  the  selling  of  tooth- 
brushes and  perfumery:  then  he  shut  up  the  shop  altogether,  and 
only  had  a  little  surgery  attended  by  a  genteel  young  man :  then  he 
had  a  gig  with  a  man  to  drive  him ;  and,  before  her  exit  from  this 
world,  his  poor  old  mother  had  the  happiness  of  seeing  from  her  bed- 
room window,  to  which  her  chair  was  rolled,  her  beloved  John  step 
into  a  close  carriage  of  his  own,  a  one-horse  carriage  it  is  true,  but 
with  the  arms  of  the  family  of  Pendennis  handsomely  emblazoned  on 
the  panels.  "  What  would  Arthur  say  now  ?  "  she  asked,  speaking  of 
a  younger  son  of  hers  — "  who  never  so  much  as  once  came  to  see  my 
dearest  Johnny  through  all  the  time  of  his  poverty  and  struggles ! " 

"  Captain  Pendennis  is  with  his  regiment  in  India,  mother,"  Mr. 
Pendennis  remarked,  "  and,  if  you  please,  I  wish  you  would  not  call 
me  Johnny  before  the  young  man — before  Mr.  Parkins." 

Presently  the  day  came  when  she  ceased  to  call  her  son  by  any 
title  of  endearment  or  affection ;  and  his  house  was  very  lonely  with- 
out that  kind  though  querulous  voice.  He  had  his  night-bell  altered 
and  placed  in  the  room  in  which  the  good  old  lady  had  grumbled  for 
many  a  long  year,  and  he  slept  in  the  great  large  bed  there.  He  was 
upwards  of  forty  years  old  when  these  events  befel :  before  the  war 
was  over ;  before  George  the  Magnificent  came  to  the  throne ;  before 
this  history  indeed :  but  what  is  a  gentleman  without  his  pedigree  ? 
Pendennis,  by  this  time,  had  his  handsomely  framed  and  glazed,  and 
hanging  up  in  his  drawing-room  between  the  pictures  of  Codlingbury 
House  in  Somersetshire,  and  St.  Boniface's  College,  Oxbridge,  where 
he  had  passed  the  brief  and  happy  days  of  his  early  manhood.  As  for 
the  pedigree,  he  had  taken  it  out  of  a  trunk,  as  Sterne's  officer  called 
for  his  sword,  now  that  he  was  a  gentleman  and  could  show  it. 

About  the  time  of  Mrs.  Pendennis's  demise,  another  of  her  son's 
patients  likewise  died  at  Bath;  that  virtuous  old  woman,  old  Lady 
Pontypool,  daughter  of  Reginald  twelfth  Earl  of  Bareacres,  and  by 


8  PENDENNIS. 

consequence  great  grand  aunt  to  the  preserii  Earl,  and  widow  of  John 
second  Lord  Pontypool,  and  likewise  of  the  Reverend  Jonas  Wales, 
of  the  Armageddon  Chapel,  Clifton.  For  the  last  five  years  of  her 
life  her  ladyship  had  been  attended  by  Miss  Helen  Thistlewood,  a 
very  distant  relative  of  the  noble  house  of  Bareacres,  before  mentioned, 
and  daughter  of  Lieutenant  R.  Thistlewood,  R.N.,  killed  at  the  battle 
of  Copenhagen.  Under  Lady  Pontypool's  roof  Miss  Thistlewood 
found  a  shelter :  the  Doctor,  who  paid  his  visits  to  my  Lady  Ponty- 
pool at  least  twice  a  day,  could  not  but  remark  the  angelical  sweetness 
and  kindness  with  which  the  young  lady  bore  her  elderly  relative's  ill- 
temper  ;  and  it  was  as  they  were  going  in  the  fourth  mourning  coach 
to  attend  her  ladyship's  venerated  remains  to  Bath  Abbey,  where  they 
now  repose,  that  he  looked  at  her  sweet  pale  face  and  resolved  upon 
putting  a  certain  question  to  her,  the  very  nature  of  which  made  his 
pulse  beat  ninety,  at  least. 

He  was  older  than  she  by  more  than  twenty  years,  and  at  no  time 
the  most  ardent  of  men.  Perhaps  he  had  had  a  love  affair  in  earlv 
life  which  he  had  to  strangle — perhaps  all  early  love  affairs  ought  to 
be  strangled  or  drowned,  like  so  many  blind  kittens :  well,  at  three- 
and-forty  he  was  a  collected  quiet  little  gentleman  in  black  stockings 
with  a  bald  head,  and  a  few  days  after  the  ceremony  he  called  to  see 
her,  and,  as  he  felt  her  pulse,  he  kept  hold  of  her  hand  in  his,  and 
asked  her  where  she  was  going  to  live  now  that  the  Pontypool  family 
had  come  down  upon  the  property,  which  was  being  nailed  into  boxes, 
and  packed  into  hampers,  and  swaddled  up  with  haybands,  and  buried 
in  straw,  and  locked  under  three  keys  in  green-baize  plate-chests,  and 
carted  away  under  the  eyes  of  poor  Miss  Helen, — he  asked  her  where 
she  was  going  to  live  finally. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  said  she  did  not  know.  She  had 
a  little  money.  The  old  lady  had  left  her  a  thousand  pounds,  indeed  ; 
and  she  would  go  into  a  boarding-house  or  into  a  school :  in  fine,  she 
did  not  know  where. 

Then  Pendennis,  looking  into  her  pale  face,  and  keeping  hold  of 
her  cold  little  hand,  asked  her  if  she  would  come  and  live  with  him  ? 
He  was  old  compared  to— to  so  blooming  a  young  lady  as  Miss 
Thistlewood  (Pendennis  was  of  the  grave  old  complimentary  school 
of  gentlemen  and  apothecaries),  but  he  was  of  good  birth,  and,  he 
flattered  himself,  of  good  principles  and  temper.  His  prospects  were 
good,  and  daily  mending.  He  was  alone  in  the  world,  and  had  need 
of  a  kind  and  constant  companion,  whom  it  would  be  the  study  of  his 
life  to  make  happy ;  in  a  word,  he  recited  to  her  a  little  speech,  which 
he  had  composed  that  morning  in  bed,  and  rehearsed  and  perfected  in 
his  carriage,  as  he  was  coming  to  wait  upon  the  young  lady. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  had  an  eai-ly  love-passage,  she  too  had  one  day 


PENDENNIS.  9 

hoped  for  a  different  lot  than  to  be  wedded  to  a  little  gentleman  who 
rapped  his  teeth  and  smiled  artificially,  who  was  laboriously  polite  to 
the  butler  as  he  slid  upstairs  into  the  drawing-room,  and  profusely 
civil  to  the  lady's-maid,  who  waited  at  the  bed-room  door ;  for  whom 
her  old  patroness  used  to  ring  as  for  a  servant,  and  who  came  with 
even  more  eagerness ;  perhaps  she  would  have  chosen  a  different  man 
— but  she  knew,  on  the  other  hand,  how  worthy  Pendennis  was,  how 
prudent,  how  honourable ;  how  good  he  had  been  to  his  mother,  and 
constant  in  his  care  of  her;  and  the  upshot  of  this  interview  was,  that 
she,  blushing  very  much,  made  Pendennis  an  extremely  low  curtsey, 
and  asked  leave  to — to  consider  his  very  kind  proposal. 

They  were  married  in  the  dull  Bath  season,  which  was  the  height 
of  the  season  in  London.  And  Pendennis  having  previously,  through 
a  professional  friend,  M.R.C.S.,  secured  lodgings  in  Holies  Street, 
Cavendish  Square,  took  his  wife  thither  in  a  chaise  and  pair;  con- 
ducted her  to  the  theatres,  the  Parks,  and  the  Chapel  Royal ;  showed 
her  the  folks  going  to  a  drawing-room,  and,  in  a  word,  gave  her  all  the 
pleasures  of  the  town.  He  likewise  left  cards  upon  Lord  Pontypool, 
upon  the  Right  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Bareacres,  and  upon  Sir  Pepin 
and  Lady  Ribstone,  his  earliest  and  kindest  patrons.  Bareacres  took 
no  notice  of  the  cards.  Pontypool  called,  admired  Mrs.  Pendennis, 
and  said  Lady  Pontypool  would  come  and  see  her,  which  her  ladyship 
did,  per  proxy  of  John  her  footman,  who  brought  her  card,  and  an 
invitation  to  a  concert  five  weeks  off.  Pendennis  was  back  in  his  little 
one-horse  carriage,  dispensing  draughts  and  pills  at  that  time :  but  the 
Ribstones  asked  him  and  Mrs.  Pendennis  to  an  entertainment,  of 
which  Mr.  Pendennis  talked  to  the  last  day  of  his  life. 

The  secret  ambition  of  Mr.  Pendennis  had  always  been  to  be  a 
gentleman.  It  takes  much  time  and  careful  saving  for  a  provincial 
doctor,  whose  gains  are  not  very  large,  to  lay  by  enough  money 
wherewith  to  purchase  a  house  and  land :  but  besides  our  friend's 
own  frugality  and  prudence,  fortune  aided  him  considerably  in  his 
endeavour,  and  brought  him  to  the  point  which  he  so  panted  to  attain. 
He  laid  out  some  money  very  advantageously  in  the  purchase  of  a 
house  and  small  estate  close  upon  the  village  of  Clavering  before 
mentioned.  A  lucky  purchase  which  he  had  made  of  shares  in  a 
copper-mine  added  very  considerably  to  his  wealth,  and  he  realised 
with  great  prudence  while  this  mine  was  still  at  its  full  vogue.  Finally, 
he  sold  his  business,  at  Bath,  to  Mr.  Parkins,  for  a  handsome  sum  of 
ready  money,  and  for  an  annuity  to  be  paid  to  him  during  a  certain 
number  of  years  after  he  had  for  ever  retired  from  the  handling  of  the 
mortar  and  pestle. 

Arthur  Pendennis,  his  son,  was  eight  years  old  at  the  time  of  this 


lo  PENDENNIS. 

event,  so  that  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  lad,  who  left  Bath  and  the 
surgery  so  young,  should  forget  the  existence  of  such  a  place  almost 
entirely,  and  that  his  father's  hands  had  ever  been  dirtied  by  the  com- 
pounding of  odious  pills,  or  the  preparation  of  filthy  plasters.  The 
old  man  never  spoke  about  the  shop  himself,  never  alluded  to  it ;  called 
in  the  medical  practitioner  of  Clavering  to  attend  his  family ;  sunk  the 
black  breeches  and  stockings  altogether;  attended  market  and  ses- 
sions, and  wore  a  bottle-green  coat  and  brass  buttons  with  drab  gaiters, 
just  as  if  he  had  been  an  English  gentleman  all  his  life.  He  used  to 
stand  at  his  lodge-gate,  and  see  the  coaches  come  in,  and  bow  gravely 
to  the  guards  and  coachmen  as  they  touched  their  hats  and  drove  by. 
It  was  he  who  founded  the  Clavering  Book  Club :  and  set  up  the 
Samaritan  Soup  and  Blanket  Society.  It  was  he  who  brought  the 
mail,  which  used  to  run  through  Cacklefield  before,  away  from  that 
village  and  through  Clavering.  At  church  he  was  equally  active  as  a 
vestryman  and  a  worshipper.  At  market  every  Thursday,  he  went 
from  pen  to  stall ;  looked  at  samples  of  oats,  and  munched  com ;  felt 
beasts,  punched  geese  in  the  breast,  and  weighed  them  with  a  knowing 
air ;  and  did  business  with  the  farmers  at  the  Clavering  Arms,  as  well 
as  the  oldest  frequenter  of  that  house  of  call.  It  was  now  his  shame, 
as  it  formerly  was  his  pride,  to  be  called  Doctor,  and  those  who  wished 
to  please  him  always  gave  him  the  title  of  Squire. 

Heaven  knows  where  they  came  from,  but  a  whole  range  of  Pen- 
denni6  portraits  presently  hung  round  the  Doctor's  oak  dining-room ; 
Lelys  and  Vandykes  he  vowed  all  the  portraits  to  be,  and  when 
questioned  as  to  the  history  of  the  originals,  would  vaguely  say  they 
were  "ancestors  of  his."  His  little  boy  believed  in  them  to  their  fullest 
extent,  and  Roger  Pendennis  of  Agincourt,  Arthur  Pendennis  of  Cregy. 
General  Pendennis  of  Blenheim  and  Oudenarde,  were  as  real  and 
actual  beings  for  this  young  gentleman  as — whom  shall  we  say  ? — as 
Robinson  Crusoe,  or  Peter  Wilkins,  or  the  Seven  Champions  of 
Christendom,  whose  histories  were  in  his  library. 

Pendennis's  fortune,  which  was  not  above  eight  hundred  pounds  a 
year,  did  not,  with  the  best  economy  and  management,  permit  of  his 
living  with  the  great  folks  of  the  county ;  but  he  had  a  decent  com- 
fortable society  of  the  second  sort.  If  they  were  not  the  roses,  they 
lived  near  the  roses,  as  it  were,  and  had  a  good  deal  of  the  odour  of 
genteel  life.  They  had  out  their  plate,  and  dined  each  other  round  in 
the  moonlight  nights  twice  a  year,  coming  a  dozen  miles  to  these 
festivals ;  and  besides  the  county,  the  Pendennises  had  the  society  of 
the  town  of  Clavering,  as  much  as,  nay,  more  than  they  liked :  for 
Mrs.  Pybus  was  always  poking  about  Helen's  conservatories,  and 
intercepting  the  operation  of  her  soup-tickets  and  coal-clubs :  Captain 
Glanders  (H.   P.,  50th   Dragoon  Guards)  was  for  ever  swaggering 


PENDENNIS.  II 

about  the  Squire's  stables  and  gardens,  and  endeavouring  to  enlist 
him  in  his  quarrels  with  the  Vicar,  with  the  Postmaster,  with  the 
•Reverend  F.  Wapshot  of  Clavering  Grammar  School,  for  overflogging 
his  son,  Anglesea  Glanders, — with  all  the  village  in  fine.  And  Pen- 
dennis  and  his  wife  often  blessed  themselves,  that  their  house  of 
Fairoaks  was  nearly  a  mile  out  of  Clavering,  or  their  premises  would 
never  have  been  free  from  the  prying  eyes  and  prattle  of  one  or  other 
of  the  male  and  female  inhabitants  there. 

Fairoaks  lawn  comes  down  to  the  little  river  Brawl,  and  on  the 
other  side  were  the  plantations  and  woods  (as  much  as  were  left  of 
them)  of  Clavering  Park,  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart.  The  park  was 
let  out  in  pasture  and  fed  down  by  sheep  and  cattle  when  the  Pen- 
dennises  came  first  to  live  at  Fairoaks.  Shutters  were  up  in  the 
house;  a  splendid  freestone  palace,  with  great  stairs,  statues,  and 
porticos,  whereof  you  may  see  a  picture  in  the  "  Beauties  of  England 
and  Wales."  Sir  Richard  Clavering,  Sir  Francis's  grandfather,  had 
commenced  the  ruin  of  the  family  by  the  building  of  this  palace :  his 
successor  had  achieved  the  ruin  by  living  in  it.  The  present  Sir 
Francis  was  abroad  somewhere;  nor  could  anybody  be  found  rich 
enough  to  rent  that  enormous  mansion,  through  the  deserted  rooms, 
mouldy  clanking  halls,  and  dismal  galleries  of  which,  Arthur  Penden- 
nis  many  a  time  walked  trembling  when  he  was  a  boy.  At  sunset, 
from  the  lawn  of  Fairoaks,  there  was  a  pretty  sight :  it  and  the 
opposite  park  of  Clavering  were  in  the  habit  of  putting  on  a  rich 
golden  tinge,  which  became  them  both  wonderfully.  The  upper 
windows  of  the  great  house  flamed  so  as  to  make  your  eyes  wink; 
the  little  river  ran  off  noisily  westward,  and  was  lost  in  a  sombre 
wood,  behind  which  the  towers  of  the  old  abbey  church  of  Clavering 
(whereby  that  town  is  called  Clavering  St.  Mary's  to  the  present  day) 
rose  up  in  purple  splendour.  Little  Arthur's  figure  and  his  mother's 
cast  long  blue  shadows  over  the  grass :  and  he  would  repeat  in  a  low 
voice  (for  a  scene  of  great  natural  beauty  always  moved  the  boy,  who 
inherited  this  sensibility  from  his  mother)  certain  lines  beginning, 
"  These  are  thy  glorious  works.  Parent  of  Good ;  Almighty !  thine 
this  universal  frame,"  greatly  to  Mrs.  Pendennis's  delight.  Such 
walks  and  conversation  generally  ended  in  a  profusion  of  filial  and 
maternal  embraces ;  for  to  love  and  to  pray  were  the  main  occupations 
of  this  dear  woman's  life ;  and  I  have  often  heard  Pendennis  say  in 
his  wild  way,  that  he  felt  that  he  was  sure  of  going  to  heaven,  for  his 
mother  never  could  be  happy  there  without  him. 

As  for  John  Pendennis,  as  the  father  of  the  family,  and  that  sort 
of  thing,  everybody  had  the  greatest  respect  for  him :  and  his  orders 
were  obeyed  like  those  of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  His  hat  was  as 
well  brushed,  perhaps,  as  that  of  any  man  in  this  empire.     His  meals 


12  PENDENNIS: 

were  served  at  the  same  minute  every  day,  and  woe  to  those  who  came 
late,  as  little  Pen,  a  disorderly  little  rascal,  sometimes  did.  Prayers 
were  recited,  his  letters  were  read,  his  business  dispatched,  his  stables 
and  garden  inspected,  his  hen-houses  and  kennel,  his  bam  and  pigstye 
visited,  always  at  regular  hours.  After  dinner  he  always  had  a  nap 
with  the  Globe  newspaper  on  his  knee,  and  his  yellow  bandanna 
handkerchief  on  his  face  (Major  Pendennis  sent  the  yellow  hand- 
kerchiefs from  India,  and  his  brother  had  helped  in  the  purchase  of  his 
majority,  so  that  they  were  good  friends  now).  And  so,  as  his  dinner 
took  place  at  six  o'clock  to  a  minute,  and  the  sunset  business  alluded 
to  may  be  supposed  to  have  occurred  at  about  half-past  seven,  it  is 
probable  that  he  did  not  much  care  for  the  view  in  front  of  his  lawn 
windows,  or  take  any  share  in  the  poetry  and  caresses  which  were 
taking  place  there. 

They  seldom  occurred  in  his  presence.  However  frisky  they  were 
before,  mother  and  child  were  hushed  and  quiet  when  Mr.  Pendennis 
walked  into  the  drawing-room,  his  newspaper  under  his  arm.  ,  .  And 
here,  while  little  Pen,  buried  in  a  great  chair,  read  all  the  books  of 
which  he  could  lay  hold,  the  Squire  perused  his  own  articles  in  the 
"  Gardener's  Gazette,"  or  took  a  solemn  hand  at  picquet  with  Mrs. 
Pendennis,  or  an  occasional  friend  from  the  village. 

Pendennis  usually  took  care  that  at  least  one  of  his  grand  dinners 
should  take  place  when  his  brother,  the  Major,  who,  on  the  return  of 
his  regiment  from  India  and  New  South  Wales,  had  sold  out  and  gone 
upon  half-pay,  came  to  pay  his  biennial  visit  to  Fairoaks.  "  My  brother, 
Major  Pendennis,"  was  a  constant  theme  of  the  retired  Doctor's  con- 
versation. All  the  family  delighted  in  my  brother  the  Major.  He  was 
the  link  which  bound  them  to  the  great  world  of  London,  and  the 
fashion.  He  always  brought  down  the  last  news  of  the  nobility,  and 
spoke  of  such  with  soldier-like  respect  and  decorum.  He  would  say, 
"  My  Lord  Bareacres  has  been  good  enough  to  invite  me  to  Bareacres 
for  the  pheasant  shooting,"  or,  "  My  Lord  Stej-ne  is  so  kind  as  to  wish 
for  my  presence  at  Stillbrook  for  the  Easter  holidays  ; "  and  you  may 
be  sure  the  whereabouts  of  my  brother  the  Major  was  carefully  made 
known  by  worthy  Mr.  Pendennis  to  his  friends  at  the  Clavering 
Reading-Room,  at  Justice  meetings,  or  at  the  County-town.  Their 
carriages  would  come  from  ten  miles  round  to  call  upon  Major  Pen- 
dennis in  his  visits  to  Fairoaks;  the  fame  of  his  fashion  as  a  man 
about  town  was  established  throughout  the  county.  There  was  a  talk 
of  his  marrying  Miss  Hunkle,  of  Lilybank,  old  Hunkle  the  Attorney's 
daughter,  with  at  least  fifteen  hundred  a  year  to  her  fortune  ;  but  my 
brother  the  Major  declined.  "  As  a  bachelor,"  he  said,  "  nobody  cares 
how  poor  I  am.     I  have  the  happiness  to  live  with  people  who  are  so 


PENDENNIS.  13 

highly  placed  in  the  world,  that  a  few  hundreds  or  thousands  a  year 
more  or  less  can  make  no  difference  in  the  estimation  in  which  they 
are  pleased  to  hold  me.  Miss  Hunkle,  though  a  most  respectable  lady, 
is  not  in  possession  of  either  the  birth  or  the  manners  which  would 
entitle  her  to  be  received  into  the  sphere  in  which  I  have  the  honour 
to  move.  I  shall  live  and  die  an  old  bachelor,  John  :  and  your  worthy 
friend,  Miss  Hunkle,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  find  some  more  worthy 
object  of  her  affection,  than  a  worn-out  old  soldier  on  half-pay." 
Time  showed  the  correctness  of  the  surmise ;  Miss  Hunkle  married 
a  young  French  nobleman,  and  is  now  at  this  moment  living  at  Lily- 
bank,  under  the  title  of  Baroness  de  Carambole,  having  been  sepa- 
rated from  her  wild  young  scapegrace  of  a  Baron  very  shortly  after 
their  union. 

The  Major  had  a  sincere  liking  and  regard  for  his  sister-in-law, 
whom  he  pronounced,  and  with  perfect  truth,  to  be  as  fine  a  lady  as 
any  in  England.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Pendennis's  tranquil  beauty,  her 
natural  sweetness  and  kindness,  and  that  simplicity  and  dignity  which 
a  perfect  purity  and  innocence  are  sure  to  bestow  upon  a  handsome 
woman,  rendered  her  quite  worthy  of  her  brother's  praises.  I  think 
it  is  not  national  prejudice  which  makes  me  believe  that  a  high-bred 
English  lady  is  the  most  complete  of  all  Heaven's  subjects  in  this 
world.  In  whom  else  do  you  see  so  much  grace,  and  so  much  virtue; 
so  much  faith,  and  so  much  tenderness :  with  such  a  perfect  refine- 
ment and  chastity  ?  And  by  high-bred  ladies  I  don't  mean  duchesses 
and  countesses.  Be  they  ever  so  high  in  station,  they  can  be  but 
ladies,  and  no  more.  But  almost  every  man  who  lives  in  the  world 
has  the  happiness,  let  us  hope,  of  counting  a  few  such  persons  amongst 
his  circle  of  acquaintance — women  in  whose  angelical  natures  there 
is  something  awful,  as  well  as  beautiful,  to  contemplate ;  at  whose  feet 
the  wildest  and  fiercest  of  us  must  fall  down  and  humble  ourselves,  in 
admiration  of  that  adorable  purity  which  never  seems  to  do  or  to  think 
wrong. 

Arthur  Pendennis  had  the  good  fortune  to  have  such  a  mother. 
During  his  child^hood  and  youth,  the  boy  thought  of  her  as  little  less 
than  an  angel — a  supernatural  being,  all  wisdom,  love,  and  beauty. 
When  her  husband  drove  her  into  the  county  town,  to  the  assize  balls 
or  concerts,  he  would  step  into  the  assembly  with  his  wife  on  his  arm, 
and  look  the  great  folks  in  the  face,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Look  at  that, 
my  lord ;  can  any  of  you  show  me  a  woman  like  that?"  She  enraged 
some  country  ladies  with  three  times  her  money  by  a  sort  of  desperate 
perfection  which  they  found  i'n  her.  Miss  Pybus  said  she  was  cold 
and  haughty;  Miss  Pierce  that  she  was  too  proud  for  her  station; 
Mrs.  Wapshot,  as  a  doctor  of  divinity's  lady,  would  have  the  pas  of 
her,  who  was  only  the  wife  of  a  medical  practitioner.     In  the  mean- 


14  PENDENNIS. 

while,  this  lady  moved  through  the  world  quite  regardless  of  all  the 
comments  that  were  made  in  her  praise  or  disfavour.  She  did  not 
seem  to  know  that  she  was  admired  or  hated  for  being  so  perfect ;  but 
carried  on  calmly  through  life,  saying  her  prayers,  loving  her  family, 
helping  her  neighbours,  and  doing  her  duty. 

That  even  a  woman  should  be  faultless,  however,  is  an  arrange- 
ment not  permitted  by  nature,  which  assigns  to  us  mental  defects,  as 
it  awards  to  us  headaches,  illnesses,  or  death :  without  which  the 
scheme  of  the  world  could  not  be  carried  on, — nay,  some  of  the  best 
qualities  of  mankind  could  not  be  brought  into  exercise.  As  pain 
produces  or  elicits  fortitude  and  endurance ;  difficulty,  perseverance ; 
poverty,  industry  and  ingenuity ;  danger,  courage  and  what  not ;  so 
the  very  virtues,  on  the  other  hand,  will  generate  some  vices ;  and,  in 
fine,  Mrs.  Pendennis  had  that  vice  which  Miss  Pybus  and  Miss  Pierce 
discovered  in  her,  namely,  that  of  pride  j  which  did  not  vest  itself  so 
much  in  her  own  person,  as  in  that  of  her  family.  She  spoke  about 
Mr.  Pendennis  (a  worthy  little  gentleman  enough,  but  there  are  others 
as  good  as  he)  with  an  awful  reverence,  as  if  he  had  been  the  Pope  of 
Rome  on  his  throne,  and  she  a  cardinal  kneeling  at  his  feet,  and  giving 
him  incense.  The  Major  she  held  to  be  a  sort  of  Bayard  among 
Majors  :  and  as  for  her  son  Arthur,  she  worshipped  that  youth  with  an 
ardour  which  the  young  scapegrace  accepted  almost  as  coolly  as  the 
statue  of  the  Saint  in  Saint  Peter's  receives  the  rapturous  osculations 
which  the  faithful  deliver  on  his  toe. 

This  unfortunate  superstition  and  idol-worship  of  this  good  woman 
was  the  cause  of  a  great  deal  of  the  misfortune  which  befel  the  young 
gentleman  who  is  the  hero  of  this  history,  and  deserves  therefore  to  be 
mentioned  at  the  outset  of  his  stor}'.  * 

Arthur  Pendennis's  schoolfellows  at  the  Greyfriars  School  state 
that,  as  a  boy,  he  was  in  no  ways  remarkable  either  as  a  dunce  or  as  a 
scholar.  He  never  read  to  improve  himself  out  of  school-hours,  but, 
on  the  contrarj',  devoured  all  the  novels,  plays,  and  poetry  on  which 
he  could  lay  his  hands.  He  never  was  flogged,  but  it  was  a  wonder 
how  he  escaped  the  whipping-post.  When  he  had  money  be  spent  it 
royally  in  tarts  for  himself  and  his  friends ;  he  has  been  known  to 
disburse  nine  and  sixpence  out  of  ten  shillings  awarded  to  him  in  a 
single  day.  When  he  had  no  funds  he  went  on  tick.  When  he  could 
get  no  credit  he  went  without,  and  was  almost  as  happy.  He  has 
been  known  to  take  a  thrashing  for  a  crony  without  saying  a  word ; 
but  a  blow,  ever  so  slight  from  a  friend,  would  make  him  roar.  To 
fighting  he  was  averse  from  his  earliest  youth,  as  indeed  to  physic,  the 
Greek  Grammar,  or  any  other  exertion,  and  would  engage  in  none  of 
them,  except  at  the  last  extremity.  He  seldom  if  ever  told  lies,  and 
never  bullied  little  boys.     Those  masters  or  seniors  who  were  kind  to 


PENDENNIS.  '  IS 

him,  he  loved  with  boyish  ardour.  And  though  the  Doctor,  when  he 
did  not  know  his  Horace,  or  could  not  construe  his  Greek  play,  said 
that  that  boy  Pendennis  was  a  disgrace  to  the  school,  a  candidate  for 
ruin  in  this  world,  and  perdition  in  the  next ;  a  profligate  who  would 
most  likely  bring  his  venerable  father  to  ruin  and  his  mother  to  a  dis- 
honoured grave,  and  the  like — yet  as  the  Doctor  made  use  of  these 
compliments  to  most  of  the  boys  in  the  place  (which  has  not  turned 
out  an  unusual  number  of  felons  and  pickpockets),  little  Pen,  at  first 
uneasy  and  terrified  by  these  charges,  became  gradually  accustomed 
to  hear  them ;  and  he  has  not,  in  fact,  either  murdered  his  parents, 
or  committed  any  act  worthy  of  transportation  or  hanging  up  to  the 
present  day. 

There  were  many  of  the  upper  boys,  among  the  Cistercians  with 
whom  Pendennis  was  educated,  who  assumed  all  the  privileges  of 
men  long  before  they  quitted  that  seminary.  Many  of  them,  for 
example,  smoked  cigars — and  some  had  already  begun  the  practice  of 
inebriation.  One  had  fought  a  duel  with  an  Ensign  in  a  marching 
regiment  in  consequence  of  a  row  at  the  theatre — another  actually 
kept  a  buggy  and  horse  at  a  livery  stable  in  Covent  Garden,  and  might 
be  seen  driving  any  Sunday  in  Hyde  Park  with  a  groom  with  squared 
arms  and  armorial  buttons  by  his  side.  Many  of  the  seniors  were  in 
love,  and  showed  each  other  in  confidence  poems  addressed  to,  or 
letters  and  locks  of  hair  received  from,  young  ladies — but  Pen,  a 
modest  and  timid  youth,  rather  envied  these  than  imitated  them  as 
yet.  He  had  not  got  beyond  the  theory  as  yet — the  practice  of  life 
was  all  to  come.  And  by  the  way,  ye  tender  mothers  and  sober  fathers 
of  Christian  families,  a  prodigious  thing  that  theory  of  life  is  as  orally 
learned  at  a  great  public  school.  Why,  if  you  could  hear  those  boys 
of  fourteen  who  blush  before  mothers  and  sneak  off  in  silence  in  the 
presence  of  their  daughters,  talking  among  each  other — it  would  be 
the  woman's  turn  to  blush  then.  Before  he  was  twelve  years  old  little 
Pen  had  heard  talk  enough  to  make  him  quite  awfully  wise  upon 
certain  points — and  so,  Madam,  has  your  pretty  little  rosy-cheeked 
son,  who  is  coming  home  from  school  for  the  ensuing  holidays.  I 
don't  say  that  the  boy  is  lost,  or  that  the  innocence  has  le^t  hrn  v.-hic-i 
he  had  from  "  Heaven,  which  is  our  home,"  but  that  the  shades  of 
the  prison-house  are  closing  very  fast  over  him,  and  that  we  are 
helping  as  much  as  possible  to  corrupt  him. 

Well — Pen  had  just  made  his  public  appearance  in  a  coat  with  a 
tail,  or  cauda-virilis,  and  was  looking  most  anxiously  in  his  little  study- 
glass  to  see  if  his  whiskers  were  growing,  like  those  of  more  fortunate 
youths  his  companions  ;  and,  instead  of  the  treble  voice  with  which 
he  used  to  speak  and  sing  (for  his  singing  voice  was  a  very  sweet 
one,  and  he  used  when  little  to  be  made  to  perform  "  Home,  sweet 


i6  PENDENNIS. 

Home,"  "My  pretty  Page,"  and  a  French  song  or  two  which  his 
mother  had  taught  him,  and  other  ballads  for  the  delectation  of  the 
senior  boys),  had  suddenly  plunged  into  a  deep  bass  diversified  by  a 
squeak,  which  set  master  and  scholars  laughing— he  was  about  sixteen 
years  old  in  a  word,  when  he  was  suddenly  called  away  from  his 
academic  studies. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  the  forenoon  school,  and  Pen  had  been 
unnoticed  all  the  previous  part  of  the  morning  till  now,  when  the 
Doctor  put  him  on  to  construe  in  a  Greek  play.  He  did  not  know  a 
word  of  it,  though  little  Timmins,  his  form  fellow,  was  prompting  him 
with  all  his  might.  Pen  had  made  a  sad  blunder  or  two — when  the 
awful  chief  broke  out  upon  him. 

"  Pendennis,  sir,"  he  said,  "  your  idleness  is  incorrigible  and  your 
stupidity  beyond  example.  You  are  a  disgrace  to  your  school,  and 
to  your  family,  and  I  have  no  doubt  will  prove  so  in  after-life  to  your 
countr)'.  If  that  vice,  sir,  which  is  described  to  us  as  the  root  of  all 
evil,  be  really  what  moralists  have  represented  (and  I  have  no  doubt 
of  the  correctness  of  their  opinion),  for  what  a  prodigious  quantity  of 
future  crime  and  wickedness  are  you,  unhappy  boy,  laying  the  seed  ! 
Miserable  trifler  !  A  boy  who  construes  Si  and,  instead  of  ci  but, 
at  sixteen  years  of  age,  is  guilty  not  merely  of  folly,  and  ignorance, 
raid  dullness  inconceivable,  but  of  crime,  of  deadly  crime,  of  filial 
ingratitude,  which  I  tremble  to  contemplate.  A  boy,  sir,  who  does 
not  learn  his  Greek  play  cheats  the  parent  who  spends  money  for  his 
education.  A  boy  who  cheats  his  parent  is  not  very  far  from  robbing 
or  forging  upon  his  neighbour.  A  man  who  forges  on  his  neighbour 
pays  the  penalty  of  his  crime  at  the  gallows.  And  it  is  not  such  a 
one  that  I  pity  (for  he  will  be  deservedly  cut  off)  ;  but  his  maddened 
and  heart-broken  parents,  who  are  driven  to  a  premature  grave  by 
his  crimes,  or,  if  they  live,  drag  on  a  wretched  and  dishonoured  old 
age.  Go  on,  sir  ;  and  I  warn  you  that  the  very  next  mistake  mat  you 
make  shall  subject  you  to  the  punishment  of  the  rod.  Who's  that 
laughing?  What  ill-conditioned  boy  is  there  that  dares  to  laugh?" 
shouted  the  Doctor. 

Indeed,  while  the  master  was  making  this  oration,  there  was  a 
general  titter  behind  him  in  the  school-room.  The  orator  had  his 
back  to  the  door  of  this  ancient  apartment,  which  was  open,  and  a 
centleman  who  was  quite  familiar  with  the  place — for  both  Major 
Arthur  and  Mr.  John  Pendennis  had  been  at  the  school— was  asking 
the  fifth-form  boy  who  sat  by  the  door  for  Pendennis.  The  lad 
grinning  pointed  to  the  culprit  against  whom  the  Doctor  was  pouring 
out  the  thunders  of  his  just  wrath — Major  Pendennis  could  not  help 
laughing.  He  remembered  having  stood  under  that  ver>'  pillar  where 
Pen  the  younger  now  stood,   and  having    been   assaulted  by  the 


PENDENNIS.  17 

Doctor's  predecessor  years  and  years  ago.  The  intelligence  was 
"passed  round"  that  it  was  Pendennis's  uncle  in  an  instant,  and 
a  hundred  young  faces  wondering  and  giggling,  between  terror  and 
laughter,  turned  now  to  the  new  comer  and  then  to  the  awful  Doctor. 

The  Major  asked  the  fifth-form  boy  to  carry  his  card  up  to  the 
Doctor,  which  the  lad  did  with  an  arch  look.  Major  Pendennis 
had  writcn  on  the  card,  "  I  must  take  A.  P.  home  ;  his  father  is 
very  ill." 

As  the  Doctor  received  the  card,  and  stopped  his  harangue  with 
rather  a  scared  look,  the  laughter  of  the  boys,  half  constrained  until 
then,  burst  out  in  a  general  shout.  "  Silence  !  "  roared  out  the  Doctor 
stamping  with  his  foot.  Pen  looked  up  and  saw  who  was  his  deliverer  ; 
the  Major  beckoned  to  him  gravely,  and  tumbling  down  his  books. 
Pen  went  across. 

The  Doctor  took  out  his  watch.  It  was  two  minutes  to  one. 
"  We  will  take  the  Juvenal  at  afternoon  school,"  he  said,  nodding  to 
the  Captain,  and  all  the  boys  understanding  the  signal  gathered  up 
their  books  and  poured  out  of  the  hall. 

Young  Pen  saw  by  his  uncle's  face  that  something  had  happened 
at  home.  "Is  there  anything  the  matter  with — my  mother?"  he 
said.  He  could  hardly  speak,  though,  for  emotion,  and  the  tears 
which  were  ready  to  start. 

"  No,"  said  the  Major,  "  but  your  father's  very  ill.  Go  and  pack 
your  trunk  directly  ;  I  have  got  a  post-chaise  at  the  gate." 

Pen  went  off  quickly  to  his  boarding-house  to  do  as  his  uncle 
bade  him  ;  and  the  Doctor,  now  left  alone  in  the  school-room,  came 
out  to  shake  hands  with  his  old  schoolfellow.  You  would  not  have 
thought  it  was  the  same  man.  As  Cinderella  at  a  particular  hour 
became,  from  a  blazing  and  magnificent  princess,  quite  an  ordinary 
little  maid  in  a  grey  petticoat,  so,  as  the  clock  struck  one,  all 
the  thundering  majesty  and  awful  wrath  of  the  schoolmaster  dis- 
appeared. 

"  There  is  nothing  serious,  I  hope,"  said  the  Doctor.  "It  is  a 
pity  to  take  the  boy  otherwise.  He  is  a  good  boy,  rather  idle  and 
unenergetic,  but  an  honest  gentlemanlike  little  fellow,  though  I  can't 
get  him  to  construe  as  I  wish.  Won't  you  come  in  and  have  some 
luncheon  }     My  wife  will  be  very  happy  to  see  you." 

But  Major  Pendennis  declined  the  luncheon.  He  said  his  brother 
was  very  ill,  had  had  a  fit  the  day  before,  and  it  was  a  great  question 
if  they  should  see  him  alive. 

"There's  no  other  son,  is  there?"  said  the  Doctor.  The  Major 
answered  "  No." 

"  And  there's  a  good  eh — a  good  eh — property  I  believe  ?  "  asked 
the  other  in  an  off-hand  way. 

2 


1 8  PENDENNIS. 

"  H'm — so  so,'  said  the  Major.  Whereupon  this  colloquy  came  to 
an  end.  And  Arthur  Pendennis  got  into  a  post-chaise  with  his  uncle, 
never  to  come  back  to  school  any  more. 

As  the  chaise  drove  through  Clavering,  the  ostler  standing 
whistling  under  the  archway  of  the  Clavering  Arms,  winked  the 
postilion  ominously,  as  much  as  to  say  all  was  over.  The  gardener's 
wife  came  and  opened  the  lodge-gates,  and  let  the  travellers  through 
with  a  silent  shake  of  the  head.  All  the  blinds  were  down  at  Fairoaks 
— the  face  of  the  old  footman  was  as  blank  when  he  let  them  in. 
Arthur's  face  was  white  too,  with  terror  more  than  with  grief.  What- 
ever of  warmth  and  love  the  deceased  man  might  have  had,  and  he 
adored  his  wife  and  loved  and  admired  his  son  with  all  his  heart,  he 
had  shut  them  up  within  himself;  nor  had  the  boy  been  ever  able 
to  penetrate  that  frigid  outward  barrier.  But  Arthur  had  been  his 
father's  pride  and  glory  through  life,  and  his  name  the  last  which 
John  Pendennis  had  tried  to  articulate  whilst  he  lay  with  his  wife's 
hand  clasping  his  own  cold  and  clammy  palm,  as  the  flickering  spirit 
went  out  into  the  darkness  of  death,  and  life  and  the  world  passed 
away  from  him. 

The  little  girl,  whose  face  had  peered  for  a  moment  under  the 
blinds  as  the  chaise  came  up,  opened  the  door  from  the  stairs  into  the 
hall,  and  taking  Arthur's  hand  silently  as  he  stooped  down  to  kiss  her, 
led  him  up-stairs  to  his  mother.  Old  John  opened  the  dining-room 
for  the  ]Major.  The  room  was  darkened  with  the  blinds  down,  and 
surrounded  by  all  the  gloomy  pictures  of  the  Pendennises.  He  drank 
a  glass  of  wine.  The  bottle  had  been  opened  for  the  Squire  four  days 
before.  His  hat  was  brushed,  and  laid  on  the  hall  table:  his  news- 
papers, and  his  letter  bag,  with  John  Pendennis,  Esquire,  Fairoaks, 
engraved  upon  the  brass  plate,  were  there  in  waiting.  The  doctor  and 
the  lawyer  from  Clavering,  who  had  seen  the  chaise  pass  through, 
came  up  in  a  gig  half  an  hour  after  the  Major's  arrival,  and  entered 
by  the  back  door.  The  former  gave  a  detailed  account  of  the  seizure 
and  demise  of  Mr.  Pendennis,  enlarged  on  his  virtues  and  the  estima- 
tion in  which  the  neighbourhood  held  him  ;  on  what  a  loss  he  would 
be  to  the  magistrates'  bench,  the  County  Hospital,  &c.  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis bore  up  wonderfully,  he  said,  especially  since  Master  Arthur's 
arrival.  The  la\\yer  stayed  and  dined  with  Major  Pendennis,  and  they 
talked  business  all  the  evening.  The  Major  was  his  brother's  executor, 
and  joint  guardian  to  the  boy  with  Mrs.  Pendennis.  Ever>-thing  was 
left  unreservedly  to  her,  except  in  case  of  a  second  marriage, — an 
occasion  which  might  offer  itself  in  the  case  of  so  young  and  hand- 
some a  woman,  Mr.  Tatham  gallantly  said,  when  different  provisions 
were  enacted  by  the  deceased.  The  Major  would  of  course  take 
entire  superintendence  of  ever\-thing  under  this  most  impressive  and 


PENDENNIS.  19 

melancholy  occasion.  Aware  of  this  authority,  old  John  the  footman, 
when  he  brought  Major  Pendennis  the  candle  to  go  to  bed,  followed 
afterwards  with  the  plate-basket ;  and  the  next  morning  brought  him 
the  key  of  the  hall  clock — the  Squire  always  used  to  wind  it  up  of  a 
Thursday,  John  said.  Mrs.  Pendennis's  maid  brought  him  messages 
from  her  mistress.  She  confirmed  the  doctor's  report,  of  the  comfort 
which  Master  Arthur's  arrival  had  caused  to  his  mother. 

What  passed  between  that  lady  and  the  boy  is  not  of  import.  A 
veil  should  be  thrown  over  those  sacred  emotions  of  love  and  grief. 
The  maternal  passion  is  a  sacred  mystery  to  me.  What  one  sees 
symbolized  in  the  Roman  churches  in  the  image  of  the  .Virgin  Mother 
with  a  bosom  bleeding  with  love,  1  think  one  may  witness  (and  admire 
the  Almighty  bounty  for)  every  day.  I  saw  a  Jewish  lady,  only  yesterday, 
with  a  child  at  her  knee,  and  from  whose  face  towards  the  child  there 
shone  a  sweetness  so  angelical,  that  it  seemed  to  form  a  sort  of  glory 
round  both.  1  protest  I  could  have  knelt  before  her  too,  and  adored 
in  her  the  Divine  beneficence  in  endowing  us  with  the  maternal  siorgc, 
which  began  with  our  race  and  sanctifies  the  history  of  mankind. 

As  for  Arthur  Pendennis,  after  that  awful  shock  which  the  sight  of 
his  dead  father  must  have  produced  on  him,  and  the  pity  and  feeling 
which  such  an  event  no  doubt  occasioned,  I  am  not  sure  that  in  the 
very  moment  of  the  grief,  and  as  he  embraced  his  mother,  and  tenderly 
consoled  her,  and  promised  to  love  her  for  ever,  there  was  not  springing 
up  in  his  breast  a  sort  of  secret  triumph  and  exultation.  He  was  the 
chief  now  and  lord.  He  was  Pendennis  ;  and  all  round  about  him 
were  his  servants  and  handmaids.  "  You'll  never  send  me  away," 
little  'Laura  said,  tripping  by  him,  and  holding  his  hand.  "  You  won't 
send  me  to  school,  will  you,  Arthur .-" " 

Arthur  kissed  her  and  patted  her  head.  No,  she  shouldn't  go  to 
school.  As  for  going  himself,  that  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  He 
had  determined  that  that  part  of  his  life  should  not  be  renewed.  In 
the  midst  of  the  general  gi'ief,  and  the  corpse  still  lying  above,  he  had 
leisure  to  conclude  that  he  would  have  it  all  holidays  for  the  future, 
that  he  wouldn't  get  up  till  he  liked,  or  stand  the  bullying  of  the 
Doctor  any  more,  and  had  made  a  hundred  of  such  day  dreams  and 
resolves  for  the  future.  How  one's  thoughts  will  travel!  and  how 
quickly  our  wishes  beget  them!  When  he  with  Laura  in  his  hand 
went  into  the  kitchen  on  his  way  to  the  dog-kennel,  the  fowl-houses, 
and  other  his  favourite  haunts,  all  the  servants  there  assembled  in 
great  silence  with  their  friends,  and  the  labouring  men  and  their 
wives,  and  Sally  Potter  who  went  with  the  post-bag  to  Clavering,  and 
the  baker's  man  from  Clavering — all  there  assembled  and  drinking 
beer  on  the  melancholy  occasion — rose  up  on  his  entrance  and  bowed 
or  curtsied  to  him.     They  never  used  to  do  so  last  holidays,  he  felt  at 


20  PENDENNIS. 

once  and  with  indescribable  pleasure.  The  cook  cried  out,  "  O  Lord," 
and  whispered,  "  How  Master  Arthur  do  grow !  "  Thomas,  the  groom, 
in  the  act  of  drinking,  put  down  the  jug  alarmed  before  his  master. 
Thomas's  master  felt  the  honour  keenly.  He  went  through  and  looked 
at  the  pointers.  As  Flora  put  her  nose  up  to  his  waistcoat,  and  Ponto, 
yelling  with  pleasure,  hurtled  at  his  chin.  Pen  patronized  the  dogs,  and 
said,  "  Poo  Ponto,  poo  Plora,"  in  his  most  condescending  manner. 
And  then  he  went  and  looked  at  Laura's  hens,  and  at  the  pigs,  and  at 
the  orchard,  and  at  the  dairy  ;  perhaps  he  blushed  to  think  that  it  was 
only  last  holidays  he  had  in  a  manner  robbed  the  great  apple-tree, 
and  been  scolded  by  the  dairymaid  for  taking  cream. 

They  buried  John  Pendennis,  Esquire,  "  formerly  an  eminent 
medical  practitioner  at  Bath,  and  subsequently  an  able  magistrate,  a 
benevolent  landlord,  and  a  benefactor  to  many  charities  and  public 
institutions  in  this  neighbourhood  and  countrj',"  with  one  of  the  most 
handsome  funerals  that  had  been  seen  since  Sir  Roger  Clavering 
was  buried  here,  the  clerk  said,  in  the  abbey  church  of  Clavering 
St.  Mary's.  A  fair  marble  slab,  from  which  the  above  inscription  is 
copied,  was  erected  over  the  Fairoaks'  pew  in  the  church.  On  it  you 
may  see  the  Pendennis  coat  of  arms  and  crest,  an  eagle  looking 
towards  the  sun,  with  the  motto  "  nee  temii  peniid"  to  the  present 
day.  Doctor  Portman  alluded  to  the  deceased  most  handsomely  and 
affectingly,  as  "  our  dear  departed  friend,"  in  his  sermon  next  Sunday; 
and  Arthur  Pendennis  reigned  in  his  stead. 


PENDENNIS.  21 


CHAPTER   III. 

IN   WHICH   PENDENNIS   APPEARS   AS    A   VERY    YOUNG    MAN   INDEED. 

ARTHUR  was  about  sixteen  years  old,  we  have  said,  when  he 
began  to  reign  ;  in  person,  he  had  what  his  friends  would  call 
a  dumpy,  but  his  mamma  styled  a  neat  little  figure.  His  hair  was  of 
a  healthy  brown  colour,  which  looks  like  gold  in  the  sunshine,  his  face 
was  round,  rosy,  freckled,  and  good-humoured,  his  whiskers  were 
decidedly  of  a  reddish  hue  ;  in  fact,  without  being  a  beauty,  he  had 
such  a  frank,  good-natured,  kind  face,  and  laughed  so  merrily  at  you 
out  of  his  honest  blue  eyes,  that  no  wonder  Mrs.  Pendennis  thought 
him  the  pride  of  the  whole  country.  Between  the  ages  of  sixteen 
and  eighteen  he  rose  from  five  feet  six  to  five  feet  eight  inches  in 
height,  at  which  altitude  he  paused.  But  his  mother  wondered  at  it. 
He  was  three  inches  taller  than  his  father.  Was  it  possible  that  any 
man  could  grow  to  be  three  inches  taller  than  Mr.  Pendennis.'' 

You  may  be  certain  he  never  went  back  to  school ;  the  discipline 
of  the  establishment  did  not  suit  him,  and  he  liked  being  at  home 
much  better.  The  question  of  his  return  was  debated,  and  his  uncle 
was  for  his  going  back.  The  Doctor  wrote  his  opinion  that  it  was 
most  important  for  Arthur's  success  in  after-life  that  he  should  know 
a  Greek  play  thoroughly,  but  Pen  adroitly  managed  to  hint  to  his 
mother  what  a  dangerous  place  Greyfriars  was,  and  what  sad  wild 
fellows  some  of  the  chaps  there  were,  and  the  timid  soul,  taking  alarm 
at  once,  acceded  to  his  desire  to  stay  at  home. 

Then  Pen's  uncle  offered  to  use  his  influence  with  his  Royal 
Highness  the  Commander-in-Chief,  who  was  pleased  to  be  very  kind 
to  him,  and  proposed  to  get  Pen  a  commission  in  the  Foot  Guards. 
Pen's  heart  leaped  at  this  :  he  had  been  to  hear  the  band  at  St. 
James's  play  on  a  Sunday,  when  he  went  out  to  his  uncle.  He  had 
seen  Tom  Ricketts,  of  the  fourth  form,  who  used  to  wear  a  jacket 
and  trowsers  so  ludicrously  tight,  that  the  elder  boys  could  not  for- 
bear using  him  in  the  quality  of  a  butt  or  "cockshy" — he  had  seen 
this  very  Ricketts  arrayed  in  crimson  and  gold,  with  an  immense 
bearskin  cap  on  his  head,  staggering  under  the  colours  of  the  regi- 
ment. Tom  had  recognized  him  and  gave  him  a  patronizing  nod. 
Tom,  a  little  wretch  whom  he  had  cut  over  the  back  with  a  hockey- 


22  PENDENNIS. 

stick  last  quarter — and  there  he  was  in  the  centre  of  the  square, 
rallying  round  the  flag  of  his  country,  surrounded  by  bayonets, 
crossbelts,  and  scarlet,  the  band  blowing  trumpets  and  banging 
cymbals — talking  familiarly  to  immense  warriors  with  tufts  to  their 
chins  and  Waterloo  medals.  What  would  not  Pen  have  given  to 
enter  such  a  service  ? 

But  Helen  Pendennis,  when  this  point  was  proposed  to  her  by 
her  son,  put  on  a  face  full  of  terror  and  alarm.  She  said  "  she  did 
not  quarrel  with  others  who  thought  differently,  but  that  in  her 
opinion  a  Christian  had  no  right  to  make  the  army  a  profession. 
Mr.  Pendennis  never,  never  would  have  permitted  his  son  to  be  a 
soldier.  Finally,  she  should  be  very  unhappy  if  he  thought  of  it." 
Now  Pen  would  have  as  soon  cut  off  his  nose  and  ears  as  deliberately, 
and  of  aforethought  malice,  made  his  mother  unhappy  ;  and,  as  he 
was  of  such  a  generous  disposition  that  he  would  give  away  anything 
to  any  one,  he  instantly  made  a  present  of  his  visionary  red  coat  and 
epaulettes  to  his  mother. 

She  thought  him  the  noblest  creature  in  the  world.  But  Major 
Pendennis,  when  the  offer  of  the  commission  was  acknowledged  and 
refused,  wrote  back  a  curt  and  somewhat  angry  letter  to  the  widow, 
and  thought  his  nephew  was  rather  a  spooney. 

He  was  contented,  however,  when  he  saw  the  boy's  performances 
out  hunting  at  Christmas,  when  the  Major  came  down  as  usual  to 
Fairoaks.  Pen  had  a  very  good  mare,  and  rode  her  with  uncommon 
pluck  and  grace.  He  took  his  fences  with  great  coolness  and 
judgment.  He  wrote  to  the  chaps  at  school  about  his  top-boots, 
and  his  feats  across  country.  He  began  to  think  seriously  of  a 
scarlet  coat  :  and  his  mother  must  own  that  she  thought  it  would 
become  him  remarkably  well  ;  though,  of  course,  she  passed  hours  of 
anguish  during  his  absence,  and  daily  e.xpected  to  see  him  brought 
home  on  a  shutter. 

With  these  amusements,  in  rather  too  great  plenty,  it  must  not  be 
assumed  that  Pen  neglected  his  studies  altogether.  He  had  a  natural 
taste  for  reading  every  possible  kind  of  book  which  did  not  fall  into 
his  school-course.  It  was  only  when  they  forced  his  head  into  the 
waters  of  knowledge  that  he  refused  to  drink.  He  devoured  aU  the 
books  at  home,  from  Inchbald's  Theatre  to  White's  Farriery ;  he 
ransacked  the  neighbouring  book-cases.  He  found  at  Clavering  an 
old  cargo  of  French  novels,  which  he  read  with  all  his  might ;  and  he 
would  sit  for  hours  perched  up  on  the  topmost  bar  of  Doctor  Portman's 
library'  steps  with  a  folio  on  his  knees,  whether  it  were  Hakluj-t's 
Travels,  Hobbes's  Leviathan,  Augustini  Opera,  or  Chaucer's  Poems. 
He  and  the  Vicar  were  very  good  friends,  and  from  his  Reverence, 
Pen  learned  that  honest  taste  for  port  wine  which  distinguished  him 


PENDENNIS.  23; 

through  life.  And  as  for  Mrs.  Portman,  who  was  not  in  the  least 
jealous,  though  her  Doctor  avowed  himself  in  love  with  Mrs.  Pendennis, 
•whom  he  pronounced  to  be  by  far  the  finest  lady  in  the  country — all 
her  grief  was,  as  she  looked  up  fondly  at  Pen  perched  on  the  book- 
ladder,  that  her  daughter,  Mira,  was  too  old  for  him — as  indeed  she 
was— Miss  Maria  Portman  being  at  that  period  only  two  years 
younger  than  Pen's  mother,  and  weighing  as  much  as  Pen  and 
Mrs.  Pendennis  together. 

Are  these  details  insipid  ?  Look  back,  good  friend,  at  your  own 
youth,  and  ask  how  was  that  ?  I  like  to  think  of  a  well-nurtured  boy, 
brave  and  gentle,  wai'm-hearted  and  loving,  and  looking  the  world  in 
the  face  with  kind  honest  eyes.  What  bright  colours  it  wore  then, 
and  how  you  enjoyed  it !  A  man  has  not  many  years  of  such  time. 
He  does  not  know  them  whilst  they  are  with  him.  It  is  only  when 
they  are  passed  long  away  that  he  remembers  how  dear  and  happy 
they  were. 

Mr.  Smirke,  Dr.  Portman's  curate,  was  engaged,  at  a  liberal  salary, 
to  walk  or  ride  over  from  Clavering  and  pass  several  hours  daily  with 
the  young  gentleman.  Smirke  was  a  man  perfectly  faultless  at  a  tea- 
table,  wore  a  curl  on  his  fair  forehead,  and  tied  his  neck-cloth  with  a 
melancholy  grace.  He  was  a  decent  scholar  and  mathematician,  and 
taught  Pen  as  much  as  the  lad  was  ever  disposed  to  learn,  which  was 
not  much.  For  Pen  had  soon  taken  the  measure  of  his  tutor,  who, 
when  he  came  riding  into  the  court-yard  at  Fairoaks  on  his  pony, 
turned  out  his  toes  so  absurdly,  and  left  such  a  gap  between  his  knees 
and  the  saddle,  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  lad  endowed  with  a 
sense  of  humour  to  respect  such  an  equestrian.  He  nearly  killed 
Smirke  with  terror  by  putting  him  on  his  mare,  and  taking  him  a  ride 
over  a  common,  where  the  county  fox-hounds  (then  hunted  by  that 
staunch  old  sportsman,  Mr.  Hardhead,  of  Dumplingbeare)  happened 
to  meet.  Mr.  Smirke,  on  Pen's  mare,  Rebecca  (she  was  named  after 
Pen's  favourite  heroine,  the  daughter  of  Isaac  of  York),  astounded  the 
hounds  as  much  as  he  disgusted  the  huntsman,  laming  one  of  the 
former  by  persisting  in  riding  amongst  the  pack,  and  receiving  a 
speech  from  the  latter,  more  remarkable  for  energy  of  language,  than 
any  oration  he  had  ever  heard  since  he  left  the  bargemen  on  the  banks 
of  I  sis. 

Smirke  and  his  pupil  read  the  ancient  poets  together,  and  rattled 
through  them  at  a  pleasant  rate,  very  different  from  that  steady 
grubbing  pace  with  which  the  Cistercians  used  to  go  over  the  classic 
ground,  scenting  out  each  word  as  they  went,  and  digging  up  ever} 
root  in  the  way.  Pen  never  liked  to  halt,  but  made  his  tutor  construe 
when  he  was  at  fault,  and  thus  galloped  through  the  Iliad  and  the 
Odyssey,  the  tragic  play-writers,  and  the   charming  wicked  Aristo- 


24  PENDENNIS. 

phanes  (whom  he  vowed  to  be  the  greatest  poet  of  all).  But  he  went 
so  fast  that,  though  he  certainly  galloped  through  a  considerable 
extent  of  the  ancient  country,  he  clean  forgot  it  in  after-life,  and  had 
only  such  a  vague  remembrance  of  his  early  classic  course  as  a  man 
has  in  the  House  of  Commons,  let  us  say,  who  still  keeps  up  two  or 
three  quotations ;  or  a  reviewer  who,  just  for  decency's  sake,  hints  at  a 
little  Greek. 

Besides  the  ancient  poets,  you  may  be  sure  Pen  read  the  English 
with  great  gusto.  Smirke  sighed  and  shook  his  head  sadly  both  about 
Byron  and  Moore.  But  Pen  was  a  sworn  fire-worshipper  and  2 
Corsair ;  he  had  them  by  heart,  and  used  to  take  little  Laura  into  the 
window  and  say,  "  Zuleika,  I  am  not  thy  brother,"  in  tones  so  tragic, 
that  they  caused  the  solemn  little  maid  to  open  her  great  eyes  still 
wider.  She  sat,  until  the  proper  hour  for  retirement,  sewing  at 
Mrs.  Pendennis's  knee,  and  listening  to  Pen  reading  out  to  her  of 
nights  without  comprehending  one  word  of  what  he  read. 

He  read  Shakspeare  to  his  mother  (which  she  said  she  liked,  but 
didn't),  and  Byron,  and  Pope,  and  his  favourite  Lalla  Rookh,  which 
pleased  her  indifferently.  But  as  for  Bishop  Heber,  and  Mrs.  Hemans 
above  all,  this  lady  used  to  melt  right  away,  and  be  absorbed  into  her 
pocket-handkerchief,  when  Pen  read  those  authors  to  her  in  his  kind 
boyish  voice.  The  "  Christian  Year "  was  a  book  which  appeared 
about  that  time.  The  son  and  the  mother  whispered  it  to  each  other 
with  awe — Faint,  very  faint,  and  seldom  in  after-life  Pendennis  heard 
that  solemn  church-music  :  but  he  always  loved  the  remembrance  of 
it,  and  of  the  times  when  it  struck  on  his  heart,  and  he  walked  over 
the  fields  full  of  hope  and  void  of  doubt,  as  the  church-bells  rang  on 
Sunday  morning. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  his  existence,  that  Pen  broke  out  in  the 
Poets'  Corner  of  the  County  Chronicle,  with  some  verses  with  which 
he  was  perfectly  well  satisfied.  His  are  the  verses  signed  "  NEP.," 
addressed  "  To  a  Tear  ; "  "  On  the  Anniversary  of  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo  ;"  "To  Madame  Caradori  singing  at  the  Assize  Meetings  ;" 
"  On  Saint  Bartholomew's  Day"  (a  tremendous  denunciation  of  Poper)-, 
and  a  solemn  warning  to  the  people  of  England  to  rally  against 
emancipating  the  Roman  Catholics),  Sec.  &c.  —  all  which  master- 
pieces, poor  Mrs.  Pendennis  kept  along  with  his  first  socks,  the  first 
cutting  of  his  hair,  his  bottle,  and  other  interesting  relics  of  his  infancy. 
He  used  to  gallop  Rebecca  over  the  neighbouring  Dumpling  Downs, 
or  into  the  county  town,  which,  if  you  please,  we  shall  call  Chatteris, 
spouting  his  own  poems,  and  filled  with  quite  a  Byronic  afflatus  as 
he  thought. 

His  genius  at  this  time  was  of  a  decidedly  gloomy  cast.  •  He  brought 
his  mother  a  tragedy,  at  which,  though  he  killed  sixteen  people  before 


PENDENNIS.  25 

the  second  act,  Helen  laughed  so,  that  he  thrust  the  master-piece 
into  the  fire  in  a  pet.  He  projected  an  epic  poem  in  blank  verse, 
"  Cortez,  or  the  Conqueror  of  Mexico,  and  the  Inca's  daughter."  He 
wrote  part  of  "  Seneca,  or  the  Fatal  Bath,"  and  "Ariadne  in  Naxos  ; " 
classical  pieces,  with  choruses  and  strophes  and  antistrophes,  which 
sadly  puzzled  Mrs.  Pendennis  ;  and  began  a  "  History  of  the  Jesuits," 
in  which  he  lashed  that  Order  with  tremendous  severity.  His  loyalty 
did  his  mother's  heart  good  to  witness.  He  was  a  staunch,  unflinching 
Church-and-King  man  in  those  days  ;  and  at  the  election,  when 
Sir  Giles  Beanfield  stood  on  the  Blue  interest,  against  Lord  Tre- 
hawk.  Lord  Eyrie's  son,  a  Whig  and  a  friend  of  Popery,  Arthur 
Pendennis,  with  an  immense  bow  for  himself,  which  his  mother  made, 
and  with  a  blue  ribbon  for  Rebecca,  rode  alongside  of  the  Reverend 
Doctor  Portman,  on  his  grey  mare  Dowdy,  and  at  the  head  of  the 
Clavering  voters,  whom  the  Doctor  brought  up  to  plump  for  the 
Protestant  Champion. 

On  that  day  Pen  made  his  first  speech  at  the  Blue  Hotel :  and 
also,  it  appears,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life — took  a  little  more  wine 
than  was  good  for  him.  Mercy  !  what  a  scene  it  was  at  Fairoaks, 
when  he  rode  back  at  ever  so  much  o'clock  at  night.  What  moving 
about  of  lanterns  in  the  court-yard  and  stables,  though  the  moon  was 
shining  out  ;  what  a  gathering  of  servants,  as  Pen  came  home, 
clattering  over  the  bridge  and  up  the  stable-yard,  with  half  a  score  of 
the  Clavering  voters  yelling  after  him  the  Blue  song  of  the  election. 

He  wanted  them  all  to  come  in  and  have  some  wine — some  very 
good  Madeira  —  some  capital  Madeira — John,  go  and  get  some 
Madeira, — and  there  is  no  knowing  what  the  farmers  would  have 
done,  had  not  Madam  Pendennis  made  her  appearance  in  a  white 
wrapper,  with  a  candle — and  scared  those  zealous  Blues  so  by  the 
sight  of  her  pale  handsome  face,  that  they  touched  their  hats  and 
rode  off. 

Besides  these  amusements  and  occupations  in  which  Mr.  Pen 
indulged,  there  was  one  which  forms  the  main  business  and  pleasure 
of  youth,  if  the  poets  tell  us  aright,  whom  Pen  was  always  studying  ; 
and  which,  ladies,  you  have  rightly  guessed  to  be  that  of  Love.  Pen 
sighed  for  it  first  in  secret,  and,  like  the  love-sick  swain  in  Ovid, 
opened  his  breast  and  said,  "  Aura,  veni."  What  generous  youth  is 
there  that  has  not  courted  some  such  windy  mistress  in  his  time? 

Yes,  Pen  began  to  feel  the  necessity  of  a  first  love — of  a  consuming 
passion — of  an  object  on  which  he  could  concentrate  all  those  vague 
floating  fancies  under  which  he  sweetly  suffered — of  a  young  lady 
to  whom  he  could  really  make  verses,  and  whom  he  could  set  up  and 
adore,  in  place  of  those  unsubstantial  lanthes  and  Zuleikas  to  whom 
he   addressed  the  outpourings  of  his  gushing  muse.     He  read  his 


26  PENDENNIS. 

favourite  poems  over  and  over  again,  he  called  upon  Alma  Venus  the 
delight  of  gods  and  men,  he  translated  Anacreon's  odes,  and  picked 
out  passages  suitable  to  his  complaint  from  Waller,  Dr>'den,  Prior, 
and  the  like.  Smirke  and  he  were  never  weary,  in  their  interviews, 
of  discoursing  about  love.  The  faithless  tutor  entertained  him 
with  sentimental  conversations  in  place  of  lectures  on  algebra  and 
Greek  ;  for  Smirke  was  in  love  too.  Who  could  help  it,  being  in 
daily  intercourse  with  such  a  woman  ?  Smirke  was  madly  in  love 
(as  far  as  such  a  mild  flame  as  Mr.  Smirke's  may  be  called  madness) 
with  Mrs.  Pendennis.  That  honest  lady,  sitting  down  below  stairs 
teaching  little  Laura  to  play  the  piano,  or  devising  flannel  petticoats 
for  the  poor  round  about  her,  or  otherwise  busied  with  the  calm 
routine  of  her  modest  and  spotless  Christian  life,  was  little  aware  what 
storms  were  brewing  in  two  bosoms  up-stairs  in  the  study — in  Pen's 
as  he  sate  in  his  shooting-jacket,  with  his  elbows  on  the  green  study- 
table,  and  his  hands  clutching  his  curly  brown  hair,  Homer  under  his 
nose, — and  in  worthy  Mr.  Smirke's,  with  whom  he  was  reading.  Here 
they  would  talk  about  Helen  and  Andromache.  "  Andromache's  like 
my  mother,"  Pen  used  to  avouch  ;  "  but  I  say,  Smirke,  by  Jove  Pd 
cut  off  my  nose  to  see  Helen  ; "  and  he  would  spout  certain  favourite 
lines  which  the  reader  will  flnd  in  their  proper  place  in  the  third  book. 
He  drew  portraits  of  her — they  are  extant  still — with  straight  noses 
and  enormous  eyes,  and  "  Arthur  Pendennis  delineavit  et  pinxit " 
gallantly  written  underneath. 

As  for  Mr.  Smirke  he  naturally  preferred  Andromache.  And  in 
consequence  he  was  uncommonly  kind  to  Pen.  He  gave  him  his 
Elzevir  Horace,  of  which  the  boy  was  fond,  and  his  little  Greek 
Testament  which  his  own  mamma  at  Clapham  had  purchased  and 
presented  to  him.  He  bought  him  a  silver  pencil  case ;  and  in  the 
matter  of  learning  let  him  do  just  as  much  or  as  little  as  ever  he 
pleased.  He  always  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  unbosoming  himself 
to  Pen :  nay,  he  confessed  to  the  latter  that  he  had  a — an  attachment, 
an  ardently  cherished  attachment,  about  which  Pendennis  longed  to 
hear,  and  said,  "  Tell  us,  old  chap,  is  she  handsome  ?  has  she  got  blue 
eyes  or  black?"  But  Doctor  Portman's  curate,  heaving  a  gentle  sigh, 
cast  up  his  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  and  begged  Pen  faintly  to  change  the 
conversation.  Poor  Smirke !  He  invited  Pen  to  dine  at  his  lodgings 
over  Madame  Fribsby's,  the  milliner's,  in  Clavering,  and  once  when  it 
was  raining,  and  Mrs.  Pendennis,  who  had  driven  in  her  pony-chaise 
into  Clavering  with  respect  to  some  arrangements,  about  leaving  off 
mourning  probably,  was  prevailed  upon  to  enter  the  curate's  apart- 
ments, he  sent  for  pound-cakes  instantly.  The  sofa  on  which  she  sate 
became  sacred  to  him  from  that  day ;  and  he  kept  flowers  in  the  glass 
which  she  drank  from  ever  after. 


PENDENNIS.  27 

As  Mrs.  Pendennis  was  never  tired  of  hearing  the  praises  of  her 
son,  we  may  be  certain  that  this  rogue  of  a  tutor  neglected  no  oppor- 
tunity of  conversing  with  her  upon  the  subject.  It  might  be  a  little 
tedious  to  him  to  hear  the  stories  about  Pen's  generosity,  about  his 
bravery  in  fighting  the  big  naughty  boy,  about  his  fun  and  jokes, 
about  his  prodigious  skill  in  Latin,  music,  riding,  &c. — but  what  price 
would  he  not  pay  to  be  in  her  company  ?  and  the  widow,  after  these 
conversations,  thought  Mr.  Smirke  a  very  pleasing  and  well-informed 
man.  As  for  her  son,  she  had  not  settled  in  her  mind,  whether  he 
was  to  be  Senior  Wrangler  and  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  or  Double 
First  Class  at  Oxford,  and  Lord  Chancellor.  That  all  England  did 
not  possess  his  peer,  was  a  fact  about  which  there  was,  in  her  mind, 
no  manner  of  question. 

A  simple  person,  of  inexpensive  habits,  she  began  forthwith  to 
save,  and,  perhaps,  to  be  a  little  parsimonious,  in  favour  of  her  boy. 
There  were  no  entertainments,  of  course,  at  Fairoaks,  during  the  year 
of  her  weeds.  Nor,  indeed,  did  the  Doctor's  silver  dish-covers,  of 
which  he  was  so  proud,  and  which  were  flourished  all  over  with  the 
arms  of  the  Pendennises,  and  surmounted  with  their  crest,  come  out 
of  the  plate-chest  again  for  long,  long  years.  The  household  was 
diminished,  and  its  expenses  curtailed.  There  was  a  very  blank 
anchorite  repast  when  Pen  dined  from  home :  and  he  himself  headed 
the  remonstrance  from  the  kitchen  regarding  the  deteriorated  quality 
of  the  Fairoaks  beer.  She  was  becoming  miserly  for  Pen.  Indeed, 
who  ever  accused  women  of  being  just }  They  are  always  sacrificing 
themselves  or  somebody  for  somebody  else's  sake. 

There  happened  to  be  no  young  woman  in  the  small  circle  of 
friends  who  were  in  the  widow's  intimacy  whom  Pendennis  could  by 
any  possibility  gratify  by  endowing  her  with  the  inestimable  treasure 
of  a  heart  which  he  was  longing  to  give  away.  Some  young  fellows 
in  this  predicament  bestow  their  young  affections  upon  Dolly,  the 
dairymaid,  or  cast  the  eyes  of  tenderness  upon  Molly,  the  black- 
smith's daughter.  Pen  thought  a  Pendennis  much  too  grand  a 
personage  to  stoop  so  low.  He  was  too  high-minded  for  a  vulg<ir 
intrigue,  and  at  the  idea  of  a  seduction,  had  he  ever  entertained  it, 
his  heart  would  have  revolted  as  from  the  notion  of  any  act  of 
baseness  or  dishonour.  Miss  Mira  Portman  was  too  old,  too  large, 
and  too  fond  of  reading  "  Rollin's  Ancient  History."  The  Miss 
Boardbacks,  Admiral  Boardback's  daughters  (of  St.  Vincent's,  or 
Fourth  of  June  House,  as  it  was  called),  disgusted  Pen  with  the 
London  airs  which  they  brought  into  the  country.  Captain  Glandcrs's 
(H.  P.,  50th  Dragoon  Guards)  three  girls  were  in  brown-holland 
pinafores  as  yet,  with  the  ends  of  their  hair-plaits  tied  up  in  dirty 
pink  ribbon.     Not  having  acquired  the  art  of  dancing,  the  youth 


28  PENDENNIS. 

avoided  such  chances  as  he  might  have  had  of  meeting  with  the  fair 
sex  at  the  Chatteris  Assembhes ;  in  fine,  he  was  not  in  love,  because 
there  was  nobody  at  hand  to  fall  in  love  with.  And  the  young  monkey 
used  to  ride  out,  day  after  day,  in  quest  of  Dulcinea ;  and  peep  into 
the  pony-chaises  and  gentlefolks'  carriages,  as  they  drove  along  the 
broad  turnpike  roads,  with  a  heart  beating  within  him,  and  a  secret 
tremor  and  hope  that  she  might  be  in  that  yellow  post-chaise  coming 
swinging  up  the  hill,  or  one  of  those  three  girls  in  beaver  bonnets  in 
the  back  seat  of  the  double  gig,  which  the  fat  old  gentleman  in  black 
was  driving,  at  four  miles  an  hour.  The  post-chaise  contained  a  snuffy 
old  dowager  of  seventy,  with  a  maid,  her  contemporary.  The  three 
girls  in  the  beaver  bonnets  were  no  handsomer  than  the  turnips  that 
skirted  the  roadside.  Do  as  he  might,  and  ride  where  he  would,  the 
fairy  princess  whom  he  was  to  rescue  and  win,  had  not  yet  appeared 
to  honest  Pen. 

Upon  these  points  he  did  not  discourse  to  his  mother.  He  had  a 
world  of  his  own.  What  ardent,  imaginative  soul  has  not  a  secret 
pleasure-place  in  which  it  disports  ?  Let  no  clumsy  prying  or  dull 
meddling  of  ours  try  to  disturb  it  in  our  children.  Actaeon  was  a 
brute  for  wanting  to  push  in  where  Diana  was  bathing.  Leave  him 
occasionally  alone,  my  good  madam,  if  you  have  a  poet  for  a  child. 
Even  your  admirable  advice  may  be  a  bore  sometimes.  Yonder  little 
child  may  have  thoughts  too  deep  even  for  your  great  mind,  and 
fancies  so  coy  and  timid  that  they  will  not  bare  themselves  when  your 
ladyship  sits  by. 

Helen  Pendennis  by  the  force  of  sheer  love  divined  a  great  number 
of  her  son's  secrets.  But  she  kept  these  things  in  her  heart  (if  we  may 
so  speak),  and  did  not  speak  of  them.  Besides,  she  had  made  up  her 
mind  that  he  was  to  marry  little  Laura :  she  would  be  eighteen  when 
Pen  was  six-and-twenty ;  and  had  finished  his  college  career;  and  had 
made  his  grand  tour ;  and  was  settled  either  in  London,  astonishing 
all  the  metropolis  by  his  learning  and  eloquence  at  the  bar,  or  better 
still,  in  a  sweet  country  parsonage  surrounded  with  hollyhocks  and 
roses,  close  to  a  delightful  romantic  ivy-covered  church,  from  the 
pulpit  of  which  Pen  would  utter  the  most  beautiful  sermons  ever 
preached. 

While  these  natural  sentiments  were  waging  war  and  trouble  in 
honest  Pen's  bosom,  it  chanced  one  day  that  he  rode  into  Chatteris 
for  the  purpose  of  carrying  to  the  County  Chronicle  a  tremendous 
and  thrilling  poem  for  the  next  week's  paper ;  and  putting  up  his 
horse,  according  to  custom,  at  the  stables  of  the  George  Hotel  there, 
he  fell  in  with  an  old  acquaintance.  A  grand  black  tandem,  with 
scarlet  wheels,  came  rattling  into  the  inn  yard,  as  Pen  stood  there  in 


PENDENNIS.  29 

converse  with  the  ostler  about  Rebecca ;  and  the  voice  of  the  driver 
called  out,  "  Hallo,  Pendennis,  is  that  you  ? "  in  a  loud  patronizing 
manner.  Pen  had  some  difficulty  in  recognizing,  under  the  broad- 
brimmed  hat  and  the  vast  greatcoats  and  neckcloths,  with  which  the 
new  comer  was  habited,  the  person  and  figure  of  his  quondam  school- 
fellow, Mr.  Foker. 

A  year's  absence  had  made  no  small  difference  in  that  gentleman. 
A  youth  who  had  been  deservedly  whipped  a  few  months  previously, 
and  who  spent  his  pocket-money  on  tarts  and  hardbake,  now  appeared 
before  Pen  in  one  of  those  costumes  to  which  the  public  consent, 
which  I  take  to  be  quite  as  influential  in  this  respect  as  "  Johnson's 
Dictionary,"  has  awarded  the  title  of  "  Swell."  He  had  a  bull-dog 
between  his  legs,  and  in  his  scarlet  shawl  neckcloth,  was  a  pin  repre- 
senting another  bull-dog  in  gold :  he  wore  a  fur  waistcoat  laced  over 
with  gold  chains ;  a  green  cut-away  coat  with  basket  buttons,  and  a 
white  upper-coat  ornamented  with  cheese-plate  buttons,  on  each  of 
which  was  engraved  some  stirring  incident  of  the  road  or  the  chase ; 
all  of  which  ornaments  set  off  this  young  fellow's  figure  to  such 
advantage,  that  you  would  hesitate  to  say  which  character  in  life  he 
most  resembled,  and  whether  he  was  a  boxer  en  goguette,  or  a  coach- 
man in  his  gala  suit. 

"  Left  that  place  for  good,  Pendennis  .'"'  Mr,  Foker  said,  descending 
from  his  landau  and  giving  Pendennis  a  finger. 

"  Yes,  this  year  or  more,"  Pen  said. 

"  Beastly  old  hole,"  Mr.  Foker  remarked.  "  Hate  it.  Hate  the 
Doctor :  hate  Towzer,  the  second  master ;  hate  everybody  there.  Not 
a  fit  place  for  a  gentleman." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Pen,  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  consequence. 

"  By  gad,  sir,  I  sometimes  dream,  now,  that  the  Doctor's  walking 
into  me,"  Foker  continued  (and  Pen  smiled  as  he  thought  that  he 
himself  had  likewise  fearful  dreams  of  this  nature).  "  When  I  think 
of  the  diet  there,  by  gad,  sir,  I  wonder  how  I  stood  it.  Mangy  mutton, 
brutal  beef,  pudding  on  Thursdays  and  Sundays,  and  that  fit  to  poison 
you.  Just  look  at  my  leader — did  you  ever  see  a  prettier  animal } 
Drove  over  from  Baymouth.  Came  the  nine  mile  in  two-and-forty 
minutes.     Not  bad  going,  sir." 

"  Are  you  stopping  at  Baymouth,  Foker  ? "  Pendennis  asked. 

"  I'm  coaching  there,"  said  the  other  with  a  nod. 

"  What  ? "  asked  Pen,  and  in  a  tone  of  such  wonder,  that  Foker 
burst  out  laughing,  and  said,  "He  was  blowed  if  he  didn't  think  Pen 
was  such  a  flat  as  not  to  know  what  coaching  meant." 

"  I'm  come  down  with  a  coach  from  Oxbridge.  A  tutor,  don't  you 
see,  old  boy  ?  He's  coaching  me,  and  some  other  men,  for  the  little- 
go.     Me  and  Spavin  have  the  drag  between  us.     And  I  thought  I'd 


30  PENDENNIS. 

just  tool  over,  and  go  to  the  play.  Did  you  ever  see  Rowkins  do  the 
hornpipe  ? "  and  Mr.  Foker  began  to  perform  some  steps  of  that 
popular  dance  in  the  inn  yard,  looking  round  for  the  sympathy  of  his 
groom  and  the  stable  men. 

Pen  thought  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  play  too  :  and  could  ride 
home  afterwards,  as  there  was  a  moonlight.  So  he  accepted  Poker's 
invitation  to  dinner,  and  the  young  men  entered  the  inn  together, 
where  Mr.  Foker  stopped  at  the  bar,  and  called  upon  Miss  Rummer, 
the  landlady's  fair  daughter,  who  presided  there,  to  give  him  a  glass 
of  "his  mixture." 

Pen  and  his  family  had  been  known  at  the  George  ever  since  they 
came  into  the  county;  and  Mr.  Pendennis's  carriage  and  horses 
always  put  up  there  when  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  county  town.  The 
landlady  dropped  the  heir  of  Fairoaks  a  very  respectful  curtsey,  and 
complimented  him  upon  his  growth  and  manly  appearance,  and  asked 
news  of  the  family  at  Fairoaks,  and  of  Dr.  Portman  and  the  Clavering 
people,  to  all  of  which  questions  the  young  gentleman  answered  with 
much  affability.  But  he  spoke  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Rummer  with  that 
sort  of  good  nature  with  which  a  young  Prince  addresses  his  father's 
subjects;  never  dreaming  that  those  "bonnes  gens  "were  his  equals 
in  life. 

Mr.  Foker's  behaviour  was  quite  different.  He  inquired  for  Rum- 
mer and  the  cold  in  his  nose,  told  Mrs.  Rummer  a  riddle,  asked  Miss 
Rummer  when  she  would  be  ready  to  marry  him,  and  paid  his  compli- 
ments to  Miss  Brett,  the  other  young  lady  in  the  bar,  all  in  a  minute 
of  time,  and  with  a  liveliness  and  facetiousness  which  set  all  these 
ladies  in  a  giggle;  and  he  gave  a  cluck,  expressive  of  great  satisfac- 
tion as  he  tossed  off  his  mixture  which  Miss  Rummer  prepared  and 
handed  to  him. 

"  Have  a  drop,"  said  he  to  Pen.  "  Give  the  young  one  a  glass,  R., 
and  score  it  up  to  yours  truly." 

Poor  Pen  took  a  glass,  and  everybody  laughed  at  the  face  which 
he  made  as  he  put  it  down — Gin,  bitters,  and  some  other  cordial,  was 
the  compound  with  which  Mr.  Foker  was  so  delighted  as  to  call  it  by 
the  name  of  Foker's  own.  As  Pen  choked,  sputtered,  and  made  faces, 
the  other  took  occasion  to  remark  to  Mr.  Rummer  that  the  young 
fellow  was  green,  very  green,  but  that  he  would  soon  form  him ;  and 
then  they  proceeded  to  order  dinner — which  Mr.  Foker  determined 
should  consist  of  turtle  and  venison;  cautioning  the  landlady  to  be 
very  particular  about  icing  the  wine. 

Then  Messrs.  Foker  and  Pen  strolled  down  the  High  Street 
together — the  former  having  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  which  he  had 
drawn  out  of  a  case  almost  as  big  as  a  portmanteau.  He  went  in  to 
replenish  it  at  Mr.  Lewis's,  and  talked  to  that  gentleman  for  a  while. 


PENDENNIS.  31 

sitting  down  on  the  counter :  he  then  looked  in  at  the  fruiterer's,  to 
see  the  pretty  girl  there :  then  they  passed  the  County  Chronicle 
office,  for  which  Pen  had  his  packet  ready,  in  the  shape  of  "  Lines  to 
Thyrza,"  but  poor  Pen  did  not  like  to  put  the  letter  into  the  editor's 
box  while  walking  in  company  with  such  a  fine  gentleman  as  Mr.  Foker. 
They  met  heavy  dragoons  of  the  regiment  always  quartered  at  Chat- 
teris ;  and  stopped  and  talked  about  the  Baymouth  balls,  and  what  a 
pretty  girl  was  Miss  Brown,  and  what  a  dem  fine  woman  Mrs.  Jones 
was.  It  was  in  vain  that  Pen  recalled  to  his  own  mind  how  stupid 
Foker  used  to  be  at  school — how  he  could  scarcely  read,  how  he  was 
not  cleanly  in  his  person,  and  notorious  for  his  blunders  and  dullness. 
Mr.  Foker  was  not  much  more  refined  now  than  in  his  school  days : 
and  yet  Pen  felt  a  secret  pride  in  strutting  down  High  Street  with  a 
young  fellow  who  owned  tandems,  talked  to  officers,  and  ordered 
turtle  and  champagne  for  dinner.  He  listened,  and  with  respect  too, 
to  Mr.  Foker's  accounts  of  what  the  men  did  at  the  University  of 
which  Mr.  F.  was  an  ornament,  and  encountered  a  long  series  of 
stories  about  boat-racing,  bumping.  College  grass-plats,  and  milk- 
punch — and  began  to  wish  to  go  up  himself  to  College,  to  a  place 
where  there  were  such  manly  pleasures  and  enjoyments.  Farmer 
Gurnett,  who  lives  close  by  Fairoaks,  riding  by  at  this  minute  and 
touching  his  hat  to  Pen,  the  latter  stopped  him,  and  sent  a  message 
to  his  mother  to  say  that  he  had  met  with  an  old  schoolfellow,  and 
should  dine  in  Chatteris. 

The  two  young  gentlemen  continued  their  walk,  and  were  passing 
round  the  Cathedral  Yard,  where  they  could  hear  the  music  of  the 
afternoon  service  (a  music  which  always  exceedingly  affected  Pen), 
but  whither  Mr.  Foker  came  for  the  purpose  of  inspecting  the  nursery- 
maids who  frequent  the  Elms  Walk  there,  and  here  they  strolled  until 
with  a  final  burst  of  music  the  small  congregation  was  played  out. 

Old  Doctor  Portman  was  one  of  the  few  who  came  from  the 
venerable  gate.  Spying  Pen,  he  came  and  shook  him  by  the  hand, 
and  eyed  with  wonder  Pen's  friend,  from  whose  mouth  and  cigar 
clouds  of  fragrance  issued,  which  curled  round  the  Doctor's  honest 
face  and  shovel  hat. 

"  An  old  schoolfellow  of  mine,  Mr.  Foker,"  said  Pen.  The  Doctor 
said  "  H'm,"  and  scowled  at  the  cigar.  He  did  not  mind  a  pipe  in 
his  study,  but  the  cigar  was  an  abomination  to  the  worthy  gentleman. 

"  I  came  up  on  Bishop's  business,"  the  Doctor  said.  "  We'll  ride 
home,  Arthur,  if  you  like  ? " 

"  I — Pm  engaged  to  my  friend  here,"  Pen  answered. 

"  You  had  better  come  home  with  me,"  said  the  Doctor. 

"His  mother  knows  he's  out,  sir,"  Mr.  Foker  remarked:  "don't 
she,  Pendennis?" 


11  PENDENNIS. 

"  But  that  does  not  prove  that  he  had  not  better  come  home  with 
me,"  the  Doctor  growled,  and  he  walked  off  with  great  dignity. 

"  Old  boy  don't  like  the  weed,  I  suppose,"  Foker  said.  "  Ha  I 
who's  here  ? — here's  the  General,  and  Bingley,  the  manager.  How 
do,  Cos?     How  do,  Bingley?" 

"How  does  my  worthy  and  gallant  young  Foker?"  said  the 
gentleman  addressed  as  the  General ;  and  who  wore  a  shabby  mili- 
tary cape  with  a  mangy  collar,  and  a  hat  cocked  very  much  over 
one  eye. 

"  Trust  you  are  ver}-  well,  my  very  dear  sir,"  said  the  other  gentle- 
man, "  and  that  the  Theatre  Royal  will  have  the  honour  of  your 
patronage  to-night  ?  We  perform  '  The  Stranger,'  in  which  your 
humble  servant  will — " 

"  Can't  stand  you  in  tights  and  Hessians,  Bingley,"  young  Mr. 
Foker  said.  On  which  the  General,  with  the  Irish  accent,  said,  "  But 
I  think  yell  like  Miss  Fotheringay,  in  Mrs.  Haller,  or  me  name's  not 
Jack  Costigan." 

Pen  looked  at  these  individuals  with  the  greatest  interest.  He 
had  never  seen  an  actor  before ;  and  he  saw  Dr.  Portman's  red  face 
looking  over  the  Doctor's  shoulder,  as  he  retreated  from  the  Cathedral 
Yard,  evidently  quite  dissatisfied  with  the  acquaintances  into  whose 
hands  Pen  had  fallen. 

Perhaps  it  would  have  been  much  better  for  him  had  he  taken 
the  parson's  advice  and  company  home.  But  which  of  us  knows  his 
fate? 


PENDENNIS,  33 


CHAPTER    IV. 

MRS.    HALLER. 

HAVING  returned  to  the  George,  Mr.  Foker  and  his  guest  sate  down 
to  a  handsome  repast  in  the  coffee-room ;  where  Mr.  Rummer 
brought  in  the  first  dish,  and  bowed  as  gravely  as  if  he  was  waiting  upon 
the  Lord-Lieutenant  of  the  county.  Pen  could  not  but  respect  Foker's 
connoisseurship  as  he  pronounced  the  champagne  to  be  condemned 
gooseberry,  and  winked  at  the  port  with  one  eye.  The  latter  he 
declared  to  be  of  the  right  sort ;  and  told  the  waiters,  there  was  no  way 
of  humbugging  Jihn.  All  these  attendants  he  knew  by  their  Christian 
names,  and  showed  a  great  interest  in  their  families ;  and  as  the 
London  coaches  drove  up,  which  in  those  early  days  used  to  set  off 
from  the  George,  Mr.  Foker  flung  the  coffee-room  window  open,  and 
called  the  guards  and  coachmen  by  their  Christian  names,  too,  asking 
about  their  respective  families,  and  imitating  with  great  liveliness  and 
accuracy  the  tooting  of  the  horns  as  Jem  the  ostler  whipped  the 
horses'  cloths  off,  and  the  carriages  drove  gaily  away. 

"  A  bottle  of  sherry,  a  bottle  of  sham,  a  bottle  of  port  and  a  shass 
caffy,  it  ain't  so  bad,  hay,  Pen  ? "  Foker  said,  and  pronounced,  after  all 
these  delicacies  and  a  quantity  of  nuts  and  fruit  had  been  dispatched, 
that  it  was  time  to  "  toddle."  Pen  sprang  up  with  with  very  bright 
eyes,  and  a  flushed  face ;  and  they  moved  off  towards  the  theatre, 
where  they  paid  their  money  to  the  wheezy  old  lady  slumbering  in 
the  money-taker's  box.  "  Mrs.  Dropsicum,  Bingley's  mother-in-law, 
great  in  Lady  Macbeth,"  Foker  said  to  his  companion.  Foker  knew 
her,  too. 

They  had  almost  their  choice  of  places  in  the  boxes  of  the  theatre, 
which  was  no  better  filled  than  country  theatres  usually  are  in  spite 
of  the  "  universal  burst  of  attraction  and  galvanic  thrills  of  delight " 
advertised  by  Bingley  in  the  play-bills.  A  score  or  so  of  people  dotted 
the  pit-benches,  a  few  more  kept  a  kicking  and  whistling  in  the  galleries, 
and  a  dozen  others,  who  came  in  with  free  admissions,  were  in  the 
boxes  where  our  young  gentlemen  sate.  Lieutenant  Rodgers  and 
Podgers,  and  young  Cornet  Tidmus,  of  the  Dragoons,  occupied  a 
private  box.      The  performers  acted  to  them,  and  these  gentlemen 

3 


34  PENDENNIS. 

seemed  to  hold  conversations  with  the  players  when  not  engaged  in 
the  dialogue,  and  applauded  them  by  name  loudly. 

Bingley  the  manager,  who  assumed  all  the  chief  tragic  and  comic 
parts  except  when  he  modestly  retreated  to  make  way  for  the  London 
stars,  who  came  down  occasionally  to  Chatteris;  was  great  in  the 
character  of  the  "  Stranger."  He  was  attired  in  the  tight  pantaloons 
and  Hessian  boots  which  the  stage  legend  has  given  to  that  injured 
man,  with  a  large  cloak  and  beaver  and  a  hearse-feather  in  it  drooping 
over  his  raddled  old  face,  and  only  partially  concealing  his  great 
buckled  brown  wig.  He  had  the  stage -jewellery  on  too,  of  which  he 
selected  the  largest  and  most  shiny  rings  for  himself,  and  allowed  his 
little  finger  to  quiver  out  of  his  cloak  with  a  sham  diamond  ring  cover- 
ing the  first  joint  of  the  finger  and  twiddling  in  the  faces  of  the  pit. 
Bingley  made  it  a  favour  to  the  young  men  of  his  company  to  go  on 
in  light  comedy  parts  with  that  ring.  TLey  flattered  him  by  asking 
its  history.  The  stage  has  its  traditional  jewels,  as  the  Crown  and  all 
great  families  have.  This  had  belonged  to  George  Frederick  Cooke, 
who  had  had  it  from  IMr.  Quin,  who  may  have  bought  it  for  a  shilling. 
Bingley  fancied  the  world  was  fascinated  with  its  glitter. 

He  was  reading  out  of  the  stage-book — that  wonderful  stage-book 
— which  is  not  bound  like  any  other  book  in  the  world,  but  is  rouged 
and  tawdry  like  the  hero  or  heroine  who  holds  it ;  and  who  holds  it 
as  people  never  do  hold  books :  and  points  with  his  finger  to  a 
passage,  and  wags  his  head  ominously  at  the  audience,  and  then  lifts 
up  eyes  and  finger  to  the  ceiling,  professing  to  derive  some  intense 
consolation  from  the  work  between  Avhich  and  heaven  there  is  a  strong 
affinity. 

As  soon  as  the  Stranger  saw  the  young  men,  he  acted  at  them  ; 
eyeing  them  solemnly  over  his  gilt  volume  as  he  lay  on  the  stage-bank 
showing  his  hand,  his  ring,  and  his  Hessians.  He  calculated  the 
effect  that  every  one  of  these  ornaments  would  produce  upon  his 
victims :  he  was  determined  to  fascinate  them,  for  he  knew  they  had 
paid  their  money;  and  he  saw  their  families  coming  in  from  the 
country  and  filling  the  cane  chairs  in  his  boxes. 

As  he  lay  on  the  bank  reading,  his  servant,  Francis,  made  remarks 
upon  his  master. 

"  Again  reading,"  said  Francis ;  '"'  thus  it  is,  from  mom  to  night. 
To  him  nature  has  no  beauty — life  no  charm.  For  three  years  I  have 
never  seen  him  smile "  (the  gloom  of  Bingley's  face  was  fearful  to 
witness  during  these  comments  of  the  faithful  domestic.)  "  Nothing 
diverts  him.  O,  if  he  would  but  attach  himself  to  any  living  thing, 
were  it  an  animal — for  something  man  must  love." 

[Etiter  Tobias  {Coll)  from  the  hut\  He  cries, ''  O,  how  refreshing-, 
after  seven  long  weeks,  to  feel  these  warm  sunbeams  once  aga  a. 


PENDENNIS.  35 

Thanks,  bounteous  heaven,  for  the  joy  I  taste !  "  He  presses  his  cap 
between  his  hands,  looks  up  and  prays.  The  Stranger  eyes  him 
attentively. 

Francis  to  the  Stranger.  "  This  old  man's  share  of  earthly  happi- 
ness can  be  but  little.  Yet  mark  how  grateful  he  is  for  his  portion 
of  it." 

Bingley.  "  Because  though  old,  he  is  but  a  child  in  the  leading- 
string  of  hope."  (He  looks  steadily  at  Foker,  who,  however,  continues 
to  suck  the  top  of  his  stick  in  an  unconcerned  manner.) 

Francis.     "  Hope  is  the  nurse  of  life." 

Bingley.     "  And  her  cradle — is  the  grave." 

The  Stranger  uttered  this  with  the  moan  of  a  bassoon  in  agony, 
and  fixed  his  glance  on  Pendennis  so  steadily,  that  the  poor  lad  was 
quite  put  out  of  countenance.  He  thought  the  whole  house  must  be 
looking  at  him ;  and  cast  his  eyes  down.  As  soon  as  ever  he  raised 
them  Bingley's  were  at  him  again.  All  through  the  scene  the  manager 
played  at  him.  How  relieved  the  lad  was  when  the  scene  ended,  and 
Foker,  tapping  with  his  cane,  cried  out  "  Bravo,  Bingley ! " 

"  Give  him  a  hand,  Pendennis ;  you  know  every  chap  likes  a 
hand,"  Mr.  Foker  said ;  and  the  good-natured  young  gentleman,  and 
Pendennis  laughing,  and  the  Dragoons  in  the  opposite  box,  began 
clapping  hands  to  the  best  of  their  power. 

A  chamber  in  Wintersen  Castle  closed  over  Tobias's  hut  and  the 
Stranger  and  his  boots;  and  servants  appeared  bustling  about  with 
chairs  and  tables — "  That's  Hicks  and  Miss  Thackthwaite,"  whispered 
Foker.  "  Pretty  girl,  ain't  she,  Pendennis  ?  But  stop — hurray — bravo ! 
here's  the  Fotheringay." 

The  pit  thrilled  and  thumped  its  umbrellas ;  a  volley  of  applause 
was  fired  from  the  gallery :  the  Di-agoon  officers  and  Foker  clapped 
their  hands  furiously :  you  would  have  thought  the  house  was  full,  so 
loud  were  their  plaudits.  The  red  face  and  ragged  whiskers  of 
Mr.  Costigan  were  seen  peering  from  the  side-scene.  Pen's  eyes 
opened  wide  and  bright,  as  Mrs.  Haller  entered  with  a  downcast  look, 
then  rallying  at  the  sound  of  the  applause,  swept  the  house  with  a 
grateful  glance,  and,  folding  her  hands  across  her  breast,  sank  down 
in  a  magnificent  curtsey.  More  applause,  more  umbrellas ;  Pen  this 
time,  flaming  with  wine  and  enthusiasm,  clapped  hands  and  sang 
"  Bravo  "  louder  than  all.  Mrs.  Haller  saw  him,  and  everybody  else, 
and  old  Mr.  Bows,  the  little  first  fiddler  of  the  orchestra  (which  was 
this  night  increased  by  a  detachment  of  the  band  of  the  Dragoons,  by 
the  kind  permission  of  Colonel  Swallowtail),  looked  up  from  the  desk 
where  he  was  perched,  with  his  crutch  beside  him,  and  smiled  at  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  lad. 

Those  who  have  only  seen  Miss  Fotheringay  in  later  days,  since 


36  PENDENNIS. 

her  marriage  and  introduction  into  London  life,  have  Httle  idea  how 
beautiful  a  creature  she  was  at  the  time  when  our  friend  Pen  first  set 
eyes  on  her.  She  was  of  the  tallest  of  women,  and  at  her  then  age 
of  six-and-twenty — for  six-and-twenty  she  was,  though  she  vows  she 
was  only  nineteen — in  the  prime  and  fullness  of  her  beauty.  Her  fore- 
head was  vast,  and  her  black  hair  waved  over  it  with  a  natural  ripple, 
and  was  confined  in  shining  and  voluminous  braids  at  the  back  of  a 
neck  such  as  you  see  on  the  shoulders  of  the  LouvTe  Venus — that 
delight  of  gods  and  men.  Her  eyes,  when  she  lifted  them  up  to  gaze 
on  you,  and  ere  she  dropped  their  purple  deep-fringed  lids,  shone  with 
tenderness  and  mystery  unfathomable.  Love  and  Genius  seemed  to 
look  out  from  them  and  then  retire  coyly,  as  if  ashamed  to  have  been 
seen  at  the  lattice.  Who  could  have  had  such  a  commanding  brow  but  a 
woman  of  high  intellect  ?  She  never  laughed  (indeed  her  teeth  were 
not  good),  but  a  smile  of  endless  tenderness  and  sweetness  played 
round  her  beautiful  lips,  and  in  the  dimples  of  her  cheeks  and  her 
lovely  chin.  Her  nose  defied  description  in  those  days.  Her  ears 
were  like  two  little  pearl  shells,  which  the  earrings  she  wore  (though 
the  handsomest  properties  in  the  theatre)  only  insulted.  She  was 
dressed  in  long  flowing  robes  of  black,  which  she  managed  and  swept 
to  and  fro  with  wonderful  grace,  and  out  of  the  folds  of  which  you 
only  saw  her  sandals  occasionally ;  they  were  of  rather  a  large  size : 
but  Pen  thought  them  as  ravishing  as  the  slippers  of  Cinderella.  But 
it  was  her  hand  and  arm  that  this  magnificent  creature  most  excelled 
in,  and  somehow  you  could  never  see  her  but  through  them.  They 
surrounded  her.  When  she  folded  them  over  her  bosom  in  resigna- 
tion ;  when  she  dropped  them  in  mute  agony,  or  raised  them  in  superb 
command ;  when  in  sportive  gaiety  her  hands  fluttered  and  waved 
before  her,  like — what  shall  we  say  ? — like  the  snowy  doves  before  the 
chariot  of  Venus — it  was  with  these  arms  and  hands  that  she  beckoned, 
repelled,  entreated,  embraced  her  admirers — no  single  one,  for  she  was 
armed  with  her  own  virtue,  and  with  her  fathers  valour,  whose  sword 
would  have  leapt  from  its  scabbard  at  any  insult  oftered  to  his  child — 
but  the  whole  house ;  which  rose  to  her,  as  the  phrase  was,  as  she 
curtsied  and  bowed,  and  charmed  it. 

Thus  she  stood  for  a  minute — complete  and  beautiful — as  Pen 
stared  at  her.     "  I  say.  Pen,  isn't  she  a  stunner  } "  asked  Mr.  Foker. 

"  Hush : ''  Pen  said.     "  She's  speaking." 

She  began  her  business  in  a  deep  sweet  voice.  Those  who  know 
the  play  of  the  "  Stranger,"  are  aware  that  the  remarks  made  by  the 
various  characters  are  not  valuable  in  themselves,  either  for  their 
sound  sense,  their  novelty  of  observation,  or  their  poetic  fancy. 

Nobody  ever  talked  so.  If  wc  meet  idiots  in  hfe,  as  will  happen, 
it  is  a  great  mercy  that  they  do  not  use  such  absurdly  fine  words.  The 


PENDENNIS.  37 

Stranger's  talk  is  sham,  like  the  book  he  reads,  and  the  hair  he  wears, 
and  the  bank  he  sits  on,  and  the  diamond  ring  he  makes  play  with— 
but,  in  the  midst  of  the  balderdash,  there  runs  that  reality  of  love, 
children,  and  forgiveness  of  wrong,  which  will  be  listened  to  wherever 
it  is  preached,  and  sets  all  the  world  sympathizing. 

With  what  smothered  sorrow,  with  what  gushing  pathos,  Mrs. 
Ilnller  delivered  her  part!  At  first,  when  as  Count  Wintersen's 
housekeeper,  and  preparing  for  his  Excellency's  arrival,  she  has  to 
give  orders  about  the  beds  and  furniture,  and  the  dinner,  &c.  to  be 
got  ready,  she  did  so  with  the  calm  agony  of  despair.  But  when  she 
could  get  rid  of  the  stupid  servants,  and  give  vent  to  her  feehngs  to 
the  pit  and  the  house,  she  overflowed  to  each  individual  as  if  he  were 
her  particular  confidant,  and  she  was  crying  out  her  griefs  on  his 
shoulder  :  the  little  fiddler  in  the  orchestra  (whom  she  did  not  seem  to 
watch,  though  he  followed  her  ceaselessly)  twitched,  twisted,  nodded, 
pointed  about,  and  when  she  came  to  the  favourite  passage,  "  I  have 
a  William,  too,  if  he  be  still  alive — Ah,  yes,  if  he  be  still  alive.  His 
little  sisters,  too !  Why,  Fancy,  dost  thou  rack  me  so  ?  Why  dost 
thou  image  my  poor  children  fainting  in  sickness,  and  crying  to — to 
— their  mw\\\-\xv^-ot]ier" — when  she  came  to  this  passage  little  Bows 
buried  his  face  in  his  blue  cotton  handkerchief,  after  crying  out 
"  Bravo." 

All  the  house  was  affected.  Foker,  for  his  part,  taking  out  a  large 
yellow  bandanna,  wept  piteously.  As  for  Pen,  he  was  gone  too  far  for 
that.  He  followed  the  woman  about  and  about — when  she  was  off  the 
stage,  it  and  the  house  were  blank;  the  lights  and  the  red  officers 
reeled  wildly  before  his  sight.  He  watched  her  at  the  side-scene — 
where  she  stood  waiting  to  come  on  the  stage,  and  where  her  father 
took  off  her  shawl:  when  the  reconciliation  arrived,  and  she  flung 
herself  down  on  Mr.  Bingley's  shoulders,  whilst  the  children  clung  to 
their  knees,  and  the  Countess  (Mrs.  Bingley)  and  Baron  Steinforth 
(performed  with  great  liveliness  and  spirit  by  Garbetts,) — while  the 
rest  of  the  characters  formed  a  group  round  them,  Pen's  hot  eyes 
only  saw  Fotheringay,  Fotheringay.  The  curtain  fell  upon  him  like  a 
pall.  He  did  not  hear  a  word  of  what  Bingley  said,  who  came 
forward  to  announce  the  play  for  the  next  evening,  and  who  took  the 
tumult  lous  applause,  as  usual,  for  himself.  Pen  was  not  even  dis- 
tinctly aware  that  the  house  was  calling  for  Miss  Fotheringay,  nor  did 
the  manager  seem  to  comprehend  that  anybody  else  but  himself  had 
caused  the  success  of  the  play.  At  last  he  understood  it — stepped 
back  with  a  grin,  and  presently  appeared  with  Mrs.  Haller  on  his  arm. 
How  beautiful  she  looked!  Her  hair  had  fallen  down,  the  officers 
threw  her  flowers.  She  clutched  them  to  her  heart.  She  put  back 
her  hair,  and  smiled  all  round.     Her  eyes  met  Pen's.    Down  went  the 


38  PENDENNIS. 

curtain  again:  and  she  was  gone.  Not  one  note  could  he  hear  of 
the  overture  which  the  brass  band  of  the  Dragoons  blew  by  kind  per- 
mission of  Colonel  Swallowtail. 

"  She  is  a  crusher,  ain't  she  now  ? "  Mr.  Foker  asked  of  his  com- 
panion. 

Pen  did  not  know  exactly  what  Foker  said,  and  answered  vaguely. 
He  could  not  tell  the  other  what  he  felt ;  he  could  not  have  spoken, 
just  then,  to  any  mortal.  Besides,  Pendennis  did  not  quite  know  what 
he  felt  yet ;  it  was  something  overwhelming,  maddening,  delicious  ;  a 
fever  of  wild  joy  and  undefined  longing. 

And  now  Rowkins  and  ^liss  Thackthwaite  came  on  to  dance  the 
favourite  double  hornpipe,  and  Foker  abandoned  himself  to  the 
delights  of  this  ballet,  just  as  he  had  to  the  tears  of  the  tragedy, 
a  few  minutes  before.  Pen  did  not  care  for  it,  or  indeed  think  about 
the  dance,  except  to  remember  that  that  woman  was  acting  with  her 
in  the  scene  where  she  first  came  in.  It  was  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 
At  the  end  of  the  dance  he  looked  at  his  watch  and  said  it  was  time 
for  him  to  go. 

"  Hang  it,  stay  to  see  The  Bravo  of  the  Battle-Axe,"  Foker  said, 
"  Bingle/s  splendid  in  it ;  he  wears  red  tights,  and  has  to  carry 
Mrs.  B.  over  the  Pine-bridge  of  the  Cataract,  only  she's  too  heavy. 
It's  great  fun,  do  stop." 

Pen  looked  at  the  bill  with  one  lingering  fond  hope  that  2vliss 
Fotheringay's  name  might  be  hidden,  somewhere,  in  the  list  of  the 
actors  of  the  after-piece,  but  there  was  no  such  name.  Go  he  must. 
He  had  a  long  ride  home.  He  squeezed  Foker's  hand.  He  was 
choking  to  speak,  but  he  couldn't.  He  quitted  the  theatre  and  walked 
frantically  about  the  town,  he  knew  not  how  long;  then  he  mounted 
at  the  George  and  rode  homewards,  and  Clavering  clock  sang  out 
one  as  he  came  into  the  yard  at  Fairoaks.  The  lady  of  the  house 
might  have  been  awake,  but  she  only  heard  him  from  the  passage 
outside  his  room  as  he  dashed  into  bed  and  pulled  the  clothes  over  his 
head. 

Pen  had  not  been  in  the  habit  of  passing  wakeful  nights,  so  he  at 
once  fell  off  into  a  sound  sleep.  Even  in  later  days,  and  with  a  great 
deal  of  care  and  other  thoughtful  matter  to  keep  him  awake,  a  man 
from  long  practice  or  fatigue  or  resolution  begins  by  going  to  sleep  as 
usual :  and  gets  a  nap  in  advance  of  Anxiety.  But  she  soon  comes 
up  with  him  and  jogs  his  shoulder,  and  says  "  Come,  my  man,  no 
more  of  this  laziness,  you  must  wake  up  and  have  a  talk  with  me." 
Then  they  fall  to  together  in  the  midnight.  Well,  whatever  might 
afterwards  happen  to  him,  poor  little  Pen  was  not  come  to  this  state 
yet ;  he  tumbled  into  a  sound  sleep — did  not  wake  until  an  early  hour 


PENDENNIS.  39 

in  the  morning,  when  the  rooks  began  to  caw  from  the  little  wood 
beyond  his  bed-room  windows ;  and — at  that  very  instant  and  as  his 
eyes  started  open,  the  beloved  image  was  in  his  mind.  "  My  dear 
boy,"  he  heard  her  say,  "  you  were  in  a  sound  sleep,  and  I  would  not 
disturb  you :  but  I  have  been  close  by  your  pillow  all  this  while :  and 
I  don't  intend  that  you  shall  leave  me.  I  am  Love !  I  bring  with  me 
fever  and  passion :  wild  longing,  maddening  desire ;  restless  craving 
and  seeking.  Many  a  long  day  ere  this  I  heard  you  calling  out  for 
me ;  and  behold  now  I  am  come." 

Was  Pen  frightened  at  the  summons?  Not  he.  He  did  not  know 
what  was  coming :  it  was  all  wild  pleasure  and  delight  as  yet.  And 
as,  when  three  years  previously,  and  on  entering  the  fifth  form  at  the 
Cistercians,  his  father  had  made  him  a  present  of  a  gold  watch  which 
the  boy  took  from  under  his  pillow  and  examined  on  the  instant 
of  waking :  for  ever  rubbing  and  polishing  it  up  in  private  and  retiring 
into  corners  to  listen  to  its  ticking :  so  the  young  man  exulted  over 
his  new  delight ;  felt  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  to  see  that  it  was  safe ; 
wound  it  up  at  nights,  and  at  the  very  first  moment  of  waking  hugged 
it  and  looked  at  it. — By  the  way,  that  first  watch  of  Pen's  was  a  showy 
ill-manufactured  piece :  it  never  went  well  from  the  beginning,  and  was 
always  getting  out  of  order.  And  after  putting  it  aside  into  a  drawer 
and  forgetting  it  for  some  time,  he  swopped  it  finally  away  for  a  more 
useful  time-keeper. 

Pen  felt  himself  to  be  ever  so  many  years  older  since  yesterday. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  it  now.  He  was  as  much  in  love  as  the 
best  hero  in  the  best  romance  he  ever  read.  He  told  John  to  bring 
his  shaving  water  with  the  utmost  confidence.  He  dressed  himself  in 
some  of  his  finest  clothes  that  morning :  and  came  splendidly  down 
to  breakfast,  patronizing  his  mother  and  little  Laura,  who  had  been 
strumming  her  music  lesson  for  hours  before ;  and  who  after  he  had 
read  the  prayers  (of  which  he  did  not  heed  one  single  syllable), 
wondered  at  his  grand  appearance,  and  asked  him  to  tell  her  what  the 
play  was  about  ? 

Pen  laughed  and  declined  to  tell  Laura  what  the  play  was  about. 
In  fact  it  was  quite  as  well  that  she  should  not  know.  Then  she  asked 
him  why  he  had  got  on  his  fine  pin  and  beautiful  new  waistcoat  ? 

Pen  blushed,  and  told  his  mother  that  the  old  schoolfellow  with 
whom  he  had  dined  at  Chatteris  was  reading  with  a  tutor  at  Bay- 
mouth,  a  very  learned  man ;  and  as  he  was  himself  to  go  to  College, 
and  as  there  were  several  young  men  pursuing  their  studies  at  Bay- 
mouth — he  was  anxious  to  ride  over — and — and  just  see  what  the 
course  of  their  reading  was. 

Laura  made  a  long  face.  Helen  Pendennis  looked  hard  at  her  son, 
troubled  more  than  ever  with  the  vague  doubt  and  terror  which  had  l:)ccn 


40  PENDENNIS. 

haunting  her  ever  since  the  last  night,  when  Farmer  Gurnett  brought 
back  the  news  that  Pen  would  not  return  home  to  dinner.  Arthur's 
eyes  defied  her.  She  tried  to  console  herself,  and  drive  off  her  fears. 
The  boy  had  never  told  her  an  untruth.  Pen  conducted  himself 
during  breakfast  in  a  very  haughty  and  supercilious  manner ;  and, 
taking  leave  of  the  elder  and  younger  lady,  was  presently  heard  riding 
out  of  the  stable-court.  He  went  gently  at  first,  but  galloped  like  a 
madman  as  soon  as  he  thought  that  he  was  out  of  hearing. 

Smirke,  thinkmg  of  his  own  affairs,  and  softly  riding  with  his  toes 
out,  to  give  Pen  his  three  hours'  reading  at  Fairoaks,  met  his  pupil, 
who  shot  by  him  like  the  wind.  Smirke's  pony  shied,  as  the  other 
thundered  past  him  ;  the  gentle  curate  went  over  his  head  among  the 
stinging-nettles  in  the  hedge.  Pen  laughed  as  they  met,  pointed 
towards  the  Baymouth  road,  and  was  gone  half-a-mile  in  that  direction 
before  poor  Smirke  had  picked  himself  up. 

Pen  had  resolved  in  his  mind  that  he  miist  see  Foker  that 
morning;  he  must  hear  about  her;  know  about  her;  be  with  some- 
body who  knew  her;  and  honest  Smirke,  for  his  part,  sitting  up 
among  the  stinging-nettles,  as  his  pony  cropped  quietly  in  the  hedge, 
thought  dismally  to  himself,  ought  he  to  go  to  Fairoaks  now  that  his 
pupil  was  evidently  gone  away  for  the  day.  Yes,  he  thought  he 
might  go,  too.  He  might  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Pendennis  when  Arthur 
would  be  back  ;  and  hear  Miss  Laura  her  Watts's  Catechism.  He 
got  up  on  the  little  pony — both  were  used  to  his  slipping  off— and 
advanced  upon  the  house  from  which  his  scholar  had  just  rushed  away 
in  a  whirlwind. 

Thus  love  makes  fools  of  all  of  us,  big  and  little ;  and  the  curate 
had  tumbled  over  head  and  heels  in  pursuit  of  it,  and  Pen  had  started 
in  the  first  heat  of  the  mad  race. 


PENDENNJS,  4! 


CHAPTER  V. 

MRS.     HALLER    AT    HOME. 

WITHOUT  slackening  his  pace  Pen  galloped  on  to  Baymouth, 
put  the  mare  up  at  the  inn  stables,  and  ran  straightway  to 
Mr.  Foker's  lodgings,  of  whom  he  had  taken  the  direction  on  the 
previous  day.  On  reaching  these  apartments,  which  were  over  a 
chemist's  shop  whose  stock  of  cigars  and  soda-water  went  off  rapidly  by 
the  kind  patronage  of  his  young  inmates,  Pen  only  found  Mr.  Spavin, 
Foker's  friend,  and  part  owner  of  the  tandem  which  the  latter  had 
driven  into  Chatteris,  who  was  smoking,  and  teaching  a  little  dog,  a 
friend  of  his,  tricks  with  a  bit  of  biscuit. 

Pen's  healthy  red  face  fresh  from  the  gallop,  compared  oddly  with 
the  waxy  debauched  little  features  of  Foker's  chum;  Mr.  Spavin 
remarked  the  circumstance.  "  Who's  that  man  ? "  he  thought ;  "  he 
looks  as  fresh  as  a  bean.  His  hand  don't  shake  of  a  morning,  I'd  bet 
five  to  one." 

Foker  had  not  come  home  at  all.  Here  was  a  disappointment ! — 
Mr.  Spavin  could  not  say  when  his  friend  would  return.  Sometimes 
he  stopped  a  day,  sometimes  a  week.  Of  what  college  was  Pen  ? 
Would  he  have  anything  ?  There  was  a  very  fair  tap  of  ale.  Mr. 
Spavin  was  enabled  to  know  Pendennis's  name,  on  the  card  which  the 
latter  took  out  and  laid  down  (perhaps  Pen  in  these  days  was  rather 
proud  of  having  a  card) — and  so  the  young  men  took  leave. 

Then  Pen  went  down  the  rock,  and  walked  about  on  the  sand, 
biting  his  nails  by  the  shore  of  the  much-sounding  sea.  It  stretched 
before  him  bright  and  immeasurable.  The  blue  waters  came  rolling 
into  the  bay,  foaming  and  roaring  hoarsely :  Pen  looked  them  in  the 
face  with  blank  eyes,  hardly  regarding  them.  What  a  tide  there  was 
pouring  into  the  lad's  own  mind  at  the  time,  and  what  a  little  power 
had  he  to  check  it !  Pen  flung  stones  into  the  sea,  but  it  still  kept 
coming  on.  He  was  in  a  rage  at  not  seeing  Foker.  He  wanted  to  see 
Foker.  He  must  see  Foker.  "Suppose  I  go  on — on  the  Chatteris 
road,  just  to  see  if  I  can  meet  him,"  Pen  thought.  Rebecca  was 
saddled  in  another  half  hour,  and  galloping  on  the  grass  by  the 
Chatteris  road.  About  four  miles  from  Baymouth,  the  Clav^ering  road 
branches  off,  as  everybody  knows,  and  the  mare  naturally  was  for 


42  PENDENNIS. 

taking  that  turn,  but,  cutting  her  over  the  shoulder,  Pen  passed  the 
turning,  and  rode  on  to  the  turnpike  without  seeing  any  sign  of  the 
black  tandem  and  red  wheels. 

As  he  was  at  the  turnpike  he  might  as  well  go  on  ;  that  was  quite 
clear.  So  Pen  rode  to  the  George,  and  the  ostler  told  him  that 
Mr.  Foker  was  there  sure  enough,  and  that  "he'd  been  a  makin'  a 
tremendous  row  the  night  afore,  a  drinkin'  and  a  singin',  and  wanting 
to  fight  Tom  the  post-boy :  which  I'm  thinking  he'd  have  had  the 
worst  of  it,"  the  man  added,  with  a  grin.  "  Have  you  carried  up  your 
master's  'ot  water  to  shave  with  ? "  he  added,  in  a  very  satirical  manner, 
to  Mr.  Foker's  domestic,  who  here  came  down  the  yard  bearing  his 
master's  clothes,  most  beautifully  brushed  and  arranged.  "  Show 
Mr.  Pcndennis  up  to  'un."  And  Pen  followed  the  man  at  last  to  the 
apartment,  where,  in  the  midst  of  an  immense  bed,  Mr.  Harry  Foker 
lay  reposing. 

The  feather-bed  and  bolsters  swelled  up  all  round  Mr.  Foker,  so 
that  you  could  hardly  see  his  little  sallow  face  and  red  silk  nightcap. 

"Hullo!  "said  Pen. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  brother,  quickly  tell !  "  sang  out  the  voice  from 
the  bed.  "What!  Pcndennis  again.''  Is  your  Mamma  acquainted 
with  your  absence .''  Did  you  sup  with  us  last  night  ?  No — stop — 
who  supped  with  us  last  night,  Stoopid?" 

"  There  was  the  three  officers,  sir,  and  Mr.  Bingley,  sir,  and 
Mr.  Costigan,  sir,"  the  man  answered,  who  received  all  Mr.  Foker's 
remarks  with  perfect  gravity. 

"  Ah  yes :  the  cup  and  merry  jest  went  round.  We  chanted  : 
and  I  remember  I  wanted  to  fight  a  post-boy.  Did  I  thrash  him, 
Stoopid  ? " 

"  No,  sir.  Fight  didn't  come  off,  sir,"  said  Stoopid,  still  with 
perfect  gravity.  He  was  arranging  Mr.  Foker's  dressing-case — a 
trunk,  the  gift  of  a  fond  mother,  without  which  the  young  fellow  never 
travelled.  It  contained  a  prodigious  apparatus  in  plate  ;  a  silver  dish, 
a  silver  mug,  silver  boxes  and  bottles  for  all  sorts  of  essences,  and  a 
choice  of  razors  ready  against  the  time  when  Mr.  Foker's  beard  should 
come. 

"  Do  it  some  other  day,"  said  the  young  fellow,  yawning  and 
throwing  up  his  little  lean  arms  over  his  head.  "  No,  there  was  no 
fight ;  but  there  was  chanting.  Bingley  chanted,  I  chanted,  the 
General  chanted — Costigan  I  mean. — Did  you  ever  hear  him  sing 
'  The  Little  Pig  under  the  Bed,'  Pen  ? " 

"The  man  we  met  yesterday,"  said  Pen,  all  in  a  tremor,  "the 
father  of—" 

"  Of  the  Fotheringay, — the  very  man.     Ain't  she  a  \'onus,  Pen  ?'' 

"  Please,  sir,  Mr.  Costigan's  in  the  sittin'-room,  sir,  and  says,  sir, 


PENDENNIS.  43 

you  asked  him  to  brcakfiist,  sir.  Called  five  times,  sir;  but  wouldn't 
wake  you  on  no  account ;  and  has  been  year  since  eleven  o'clock, 
sir—" 

"  How  much  is  it  now  ? " 

"  One,  sir." 

"  What  would  the  best  of  mothers  say,"  cried  the  little  sluggard, 
"  if  she  saw  me  in  bed  at  this  hour  ?  She  sent  me  down  here  with  a 
grinder.  She  wants  me  to  cultivate  my  neglected  genius — He,  he ! 
I  say,  Pen,  this  isn't  quite  like  seven  o'clock  school, — is  it,  old  boy?" 
— and  the  young  fellow  burst  out  into  a  boyish  laugh  of  enjoyment. 
Then  he  added — "  Go  in  and  talk  to  the  General  whilst  I  dress.  And 
I  say,  Pendennis,  ask  him  to  sing  you  '  The  Little  Pig  under  the  Pcd  ;' 
it's  capital."  Pen  went  off  in  great  perturbation,  to  meet  l\Ir.  Costigan, 
and  Mr.  Foker  commenced  his  toilet. 

Of  Mr,  Foker's  two  grandfathers,  the  one  from  whom  he  inherited 
a  fortune,  was  a  brewer;  the  other  was  an  earl,  who  endowed  him 
with  the  most  doting  mother  in  the  world.  The  Fokers  had  been  at 
the  Cistercian  school  froni  father  to  son ;  at  which  place,  our  friend, 
whose  name  could  be  seen  over  the  playground  wall,  on  a  public-house 
sign,  under  which  "  Foker's  Entire  "  was  painted,  had  been  dreadfully 
bullied  on  account  of  his  trade,  his  uncomely  countenance,  his  inapti- 
tude for  learning  and  cleanliness,  his  gluttony  and  other  weak  points. 
But  those  who  know  how  a  susceptible  youth,  under  the  tyranny  of 
his  schoolfellows,  becomes  silent  and  a  sneak,  may  understand  how  in 
a  very  few  months  after  his  liberation  from  bondage,  he  developed 
himself  as  he  had  done ;  and  became  the  humorous,  the  sarcastic, 
tlie  brilliant  Foker,  with  whom  we  have  made  acquaintance.  A  dunce 
he  always  was,  it  is  true ;  for  learning  cannot  be  acquired  by  leaving 
school  and  entering  at  college  as  a  fellow-commoner;  but  he  was  now 
(in  his  own  peculiar  manner)  as  great  a  dandy  as  he  before  had  been 
a  slattern,  and  when  he  entered  his  sitting-room  to  join  his  two  guests, 
arrived  scented  and  arrayed  in  fine  linen,  and  perfectly  splendid  in 
appearance. 

General  or  Captain  Costigan — for  the  latter  was  the  rank  which 
he  preferred  to  assume — was  seated  in  the  window  with  the  newspaper 
held  before  him  at  arm's  length.  The  Captain's  eyes  were  somewhat 
dim ;  and  he  was  spelling  the  paper,  with  the  help  of  his  lips,  as  well 
as  of  those  bloodshot  eyes  of  his,  as  you  sec  gentlemen  do  to  whom 
reading  is  a  rare  and  dii'licult  occupation.  His  hat  was  cocked  very 
much  on  one  ear;  and  as  one  of  his  feet  lay  up  in  the  window-soat, 
the  observer  of  such  matters  might  remark,  by  the  size  and  shabbincss 
of  the  boots  which  the  Captain  wore,  that  times  did  not  go  very  well 
with  him.  Poverty  seems  as  if  it  were  disposed,  before  it  takes  posses- 
sion of  a  man  entirely,  to  attack  his  extremities  first :  the  Coverings  of 


44  PENDENNIS. 

his  head,  feet,  and  hands,  are  its  first  prey.  All  these  parts  of  the 
Captain's  person  were  particularly  rakish  and  shabby.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  Pen  he  descended  from  the  window-seat  and  saluted  the  new 
comer,  first  in  a  military  manner,  by  conveying  a  couple  of  his  fingers 
(covered  with  a  broken  black  glove)  to  his  hat,  and  then  removing 
that  ornament  altogether.  The  Captain  was  inclined  to  be  bald,  but 
he  brought  a  quantity  of  lank  iron-grey  hair  over  his  pate,  and  had  a 
couple  of  wisps  of  the  same  falling  down  on  each  side  of  his  face. 
Much  whisky  had  spoiled  what  complexion  Mr.  Costigan  may  have 
possessed  in  his  youth.  His  once  handsome  face  had  now  a  copper 
tinge.  He  wore  a  very  high  stock,  scarred  and  stained  in  many  places ; 
and  a  dress-coat  tightly  buttoned  up  in  those  parts  where  the  buttons 
had  not  parted  company  from  the  garment. 

"  The  young  gentleman  to  whom  1  had  the  honour  to  be  introjuiced 
yesterday  in  the  Cathedral  Yard,"  said  the  Captain  with  a  splendid 
bow  and  wave  of  his  hat.  "  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  sir  ?  I  marked  ye 
in  the  thayater  last  night  during  me  daughter's  perfawrumance ;  and 
missed  ye  on  my  return.  I  did  but  conduct  her  home,  sir,  for  Jack 
Costigan,  though  poor,  is  a  gentleman ;  and  when  I  reintered  the 
house  to  pay  me  respects  to  me  joyous  young  friend,  Mr.  Foker — ye 
were  gone.  We  had  a  jolly  night  of  ut,  sir — Mr.  Foker,  the  three 
gallant  young  Dragoons,  and  your  'umble  servant.  Gad,  sir,  it  put 
me  in  mind  of  one  of  our  old  nights  when  I  bore  his  Majesty's  com- 
mission in  the  Foighting  Hundtherd  and  Third."  And  he  pulled  out 
an  old  snuff-box,  which  he  presented  with  a  stately  air  to  his  new 
acquaintance. 

Arthur  was  a  great  deal  too  much  flurried  to  speak.  This  shabby- 
looking  buck  was — was   her   father.     '•  I    hope.   Miss   F ,    Miss 

Costigan  is  well,  sir  ?"  Pen  said,  flushing  up.  "  She — she  gave  me 
greater  pleasure,  than— than  I — I — I  ever  enjoyed  at  a  play.  I  think, 
sir_I  think  she's  the  finest  actress  in  the  world,"  he  gasped  out. 

"  Your  hand,  young  man !  for  yc  speak  from  your  heart,"  cried 
the  Captain.  "  Thank  ye,  sir,  an  old  soldier  and  a  fond  father  thanks 
ye.  She  is  the  finest  actress  in  the  world.  I've  seen  the  Siddons,  sir, 
and  the  O'Nale — they  were  great,  but  w^hat  were  they  compared  to 
Miss  Fotheringay?  I  do  not  wish  she  should  ashumc  her  own  name 
while  on  the  stage.  Me  family,  sir,  are  proud  people ;  and  the  Costigans 
of  Costiganstown  think  that  an  honest  man,  who  has  borne  his  Majesty's 
colours  in  the  Hundtherd  and  Third,  would  demean  himself,  by  per- 
mitting his  daughter  to  earn  her  old  father's  bread." 

"  There  cannot  be  a  more  honourable  duty,  surely,"  Pen  said. 

"  Honourable  !  Bedad,  sir,  I'd  like  to  see  the  man  who  said  Jack 
Costigan  would  consent  to  anything  dishonourable.  I  have  a  heart, 
sir,  though  I  am  poor ;  I  like  a  man  who  has  a  heart.     You  have :  I 


FENDENNIS.  45 

read  it  in  your  honest  face  and  steady  eye.  And  womM  you  believe 
it,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  and  with  a  pathetic  whisper,  "  that  that 
Bingley,  who  has  made  his  fortune  by  me  child,  gives  her  but  two 
guineas  a  week :  out  of  which  she  finds  herself  in  dresses,  and  which, 
added  to  me  own  small  means,  makes  our  all  ? " 

Now  the  Captain's  means  were  so  small  as  to  be,  it  may  be  said, 
quite  invisible.  But  nobody  knows  how  the  wind  is  tempered  to  shorn 
Irish  lambs,  and  in  what  marvellous  places  they  find  pasture.  If 
Captain  Costigan,  whom  I  had  the  honour  to  know,  would  but  have 
told  his  history,  it  would  have  been  a  great  moral  story.  But  he 
neither  would  have  told  it  if  he  could,  nor  could  if  he  would ;  for  the 
Captain  was  not  only  unaccustomed  to  tell  the  truth, — he  was  unable 
even  to  think  it — and  fact  and  fiction  reeled  together  in  his  muzzy, 
whiskified  brain. 

He  began  life  rather  brilliantly  with  a  pair  of  colours,  a  fine  person 
and  legs,  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  voices  in  the  world.  To  his 
latest  day  he  sang  with  admirable  pathos  and  humour,  those  wonderful 
Irish  ballads  which  are  so  mirthful  and  so  melancholy :  and  was 
always  the  first  himself  to  cry  at  their  pathos.  Poor  Cos !  he  was  at 
once  brave  and  maudlin,  humorous  and  an  idiot ;  always  good-natured, 
and  sometimes  almost  trustworthy.  Up  to  the  last  day  of  his  life  he 
would  drink  with  any  man,  and  back  any  man's  bill :  and  his  end  was 
in  a  spunging-house,  where  the  sheriff's  officer,  who  took  him,  was  fond 
of  him. 

In  his  brief  morning  of  life,  Cos  formed  the  delight  of  regimental 
messes,  and  had  the  honour  of  singing  his  songs,  bacchanalian  and 
sentimental,  at  the  tables  of  the  most  illustrious  generals  and  com- 
manders-in-chief, in  the  course  of  v/hich  period  he  drank  three  times 
as  much  claret  as  was  good  for  him,  and  spent  his  doubtful  patrimony. 
What  became  of  him  subsequently  to  his  retirement  from  the  army,  is 
no  affair  of  ours.  I  take  it,  no  foreigner  understands  the  life  of  an 
Irish  gentleman  without  money,  the  way  in  which  he  manages  to  keep 
afloat — the  wind-raising  conspiracies,  in  which  he  engages  with  heroes 
as  unfortunate  as  himself — the  means  by  which  he  contrives,  during 
most  days  of  the  week,  to  get  his  portion  of  whisky-and-water :  all 
these  are  mysteries  to  us  inconceivable :  but  suffice  it  to  say,  that 
through  all  the  storms  of  life  Jack  had  floated  somehow,  and  the  lamp 
of  his  nose  had  never  gone  out. 

Before  he  and  Pen  had  had  a  half  hour's  conversation,  the  Captain 
managed  to  extract  a  couple  of  sovereigns  from  the  young  gentleman 
for  tickets  for  his  daughter's  benefit,  which  was  to  take  place  speedily  ; 
and  was  not  a  bond  fide  transaction  such  as  that  of  the  last  year,  when 
poor  Miss  Fotheringay  had  lost  fifteen  shillings  by  her  venture ;  but 
was  an  arrangement  with  the  manager,  by  which  the  lady  was  to  have 


46  PENDENNIS. 

the  sale  of  a  certain  number  of  tickets,  keeping  for  herself  a  large 
portion  of  the  sum  for  which  they  were  sold. 

Pen  had  but  two  pounds  in  his  purse,  and  he  handed  them  over  to 
the  Captain  for  the  tickets ;  he  would  have  been  afraid  to  offer  more 
lest  he  should  offend  the  latter's  delicacy,  Costigan  scrawled  him  an 
order  for  a  box,  lightly  slipped  the  sovereigns  into  his  waistcoat,  and 
slapped  his  hand  over  the  place  where  they  lay.  They  seemed  to 
warm  his  old  sides. 

"  'Faith,  sir,"  said  he,  "  the  bullion's  scarcer  with  me  than  it  used  to 
be,  as  is  the  case  with  many  a  good  fellow,  I  won  six  hundtherd  of 
'em  in  a  single  night,  sir,  when  me  kind  friend,  his  Royal  Highness 
the  Duke  of  Kent,  was  in  Gibralther," 

Then  it  was  good  to  see  the  Captain's  behaviour  at  breakfast, 
before  the  devilled  turkey  and  the  mutton-chops  !  His  stories  poured 
forth  unceasingly,  and  his  spirits  rose  as  he  chatted  to  the  young  men. 
When  he  got  a  bit  of  sunshine,  the  old  lazzarone  basked  in  it;  he 
prated  about  his  own  affairs  and  past  splendour,  and  all  the  lords, 
generals,  and  Lord-Lieutenants  he  had  ever  known.  He  described 
the  death  of  his  darling  Bessie,  the  late  Mrs.  Costigan,  and  the 
challenge  he  had  sent  to  Captain  Shanty  Clancy,  of  the  Slashers,  for 
looking  rude  at  Miss  Fotheringay  as  she  was  on  her  kyar  in  the 
Phaynix;  and  then  he  described  how  the  Captain  apologized,  gave  a 
dinner  at  the  Kildare  Street,  where  six  of  them  drank  twinty-one 
bottles  of  claret,  &c.  He  announced  that  to  sit  with  two  such  noble 
and  generous  young  fellows  was  the  happiness  and  pride  of  an  old 
soldier's  existence ;  and  having  had  a  second  glass  of  curagoa,  was  so 
happy  that  he  began  to  cry.  Altogether  we  should  say  that  the 
Captain  was  not  a  man  of  much  strength  of  mind,  or  a  very  eligible 
companion  for  youth ;  but  there  are  worse  men,  holding  much  better 
places  in  life,  and  more  dishonest,  who  have  never  committed  half  so 
many  rogueries  as  he.  .They  walked  out,  the  Captain  holding  an  arm 
of  each  of  his  dear  young  friends,  and  in  a  maudlin  state  of  content- 
ment. He  winked  at  one  or  two  tradesmen's  shops  where,  possibly,  he 
owed  a  bill,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  See  the  company  I'm  in — sure  I'll  pay 
you,  my  boy," — and  they  parted  finally  with  Mr.  Foker  at  a  billiard- 
room,  where  the  latter  had  a  particular  engagement  with  some  gentle- 
men of  Colonel  Swallowtail's  regiment. 

Pen  and  the  shabby  Captain  still  walked  the  street  together ;  the 
Captain,  in  his  sly  way,  making  inquiries  about  Mr,  Foker's  fortune 
and  station  in  life.  Pen  told  him  how  Foker's  father  was  a  celebrated 
brewer,  and  his  mother  was  Lady  Agnes  Milton,  Lord  Rosherville's 
daughter.  The  Captain  broke  out  into  a  strain  of  exaggerated  com- 
pliment and  panegyric  about  Mr.  Foker,  whose  "  native  aristocracie," 
he  saidj  "  could  be  seen  with  the  twinkling  of  an  oi — and  only  served 


PENDENNIS.  47 

to  adawrun  other  qualities  which  he  possessed,  a  foin  intellect  and  a 
generous  heart." 

Pen  walked  on,  listening  to  his  companion's  prate,  wondering, 
amused,  and  puzzled.  It  had  not  as  yet  entered  into  the  boy's 
head  to  disbelieve  any  statement  that  was  made  to  him  ;  and  being 
of  a  candid  nature  himself,  he  took  naturally  for  truth  what  other  people 
told  him.  Costigan  had  never  had  a  better  listener,  and  was  highly 
flattered  by  the  attentiveness  and  modest  bearing  of  the  young  man. 

So  much  pleased  was  he  with  the  young  gentleman,  so  artless, 
honest,  and  cheerful  did  Pen  seem  to  be,  that  the  Captain  finally 
made  him  an  invitation,  which  he  very  seldom  accorded  to  young 
men,  and  asked  Pen  if  he  would  do  him  the  fevor  to  enter  his  humble 
abode,  which  was  near  at  hand,  where  the  Captain  would  have  the 
honour  of  inthrojuicing  his  young  friend  to  his  daughther.  Miss 
Fotheringay  ? 

Pen  was  so  delightfully  shocked  at  this  invitation,  that  he  thought 
he  should  have  dropped  from  the  Captain's  arm  at  first,  and  trembled 
lest  the  other  should  discover  his  emotion.  He  gasped  out  a  few 
incoherent  words,  indicative  of  the  high  gratification  he  should  have 
in  being  presented  to  the  lady  for  whose — for  whose  talents  he  had 
conceived  such  an  admiration — such  an  extreme  admiration  ;  and 
followed  the  Captain,  scarcely  knowing  whither  that  gentleman  led 
him.  He  was  going  to  see  her  !  He  was  going  to  see  her  !  In  her 
was  the  centre  of  the  universe.  She  was  the  kernel  of  the  world  for 
Pen.  Yesterday,  before  he  knew  her,  seemed  a  period  ever  so  long 
ago — a  revolution  was  between  him  and  that  time,  and  a  new  world 
about  to  begin. 

The  Captain  conducted  his  young  friend  to  that  quiet  little  street 
in  Chatteris,  called  Prior's  Lane,  which  lies  close  by  Dean's  Green 
and  the  canons'  houses,  and  is  overlooked  by  the  enormous  towers  of 
the  cathedral ;  there  the  Captain  dwelt  modestly  in  the  first  floor  of  a 
low  gabled  house,  on  the  door  of  which  was  the  brass-plate  of  "  Creed, 
Tailor  and  Robe-maker."  Creed  was  dead,  however.  His  widow 
was  a  pew-opener  in  the  cathedral  hard  by ;  his  eldest  son  was  a 
little  scamp  of  a  choir-boy,  who  played  toss-halfpenny,  led  his  little 
brothers  into  mischief,  and  had  a  voice  as  sweet  as  an  angel.  A 
couple  of  the  latter  were  sitting  on  the  door-step,  and  they  jumped 
up  with  great  alacrity  to  meet  their  lodger,  and  plunged  wildly,  and 
rather  to  Pen's  surprise,  at  the  swallow-tails  of  the  Captain's  dress- 
coat  ;  for  the  truth  is,  that  the  good-natured  gentleman,  when  he  was 
in  cash,  generally  brought  home  an  apple,  or  a  piece  of  gingerbread 
for  these  children.  "  Whereby  the  widdy  never  pressed  me  for  rint 
when  not  convanient,"  as  he  remarke'd  afterwards  to  Pen,  winking 
knowingly,  and  laying  a  finger  on  his  nose. 


48  PENDENNIS. 

As  Pen  followed  his  companion  up  the  creaking  old  stair,  his 
knees  trembled  under  him.  He  could  hardly  see  when  he  entered, 
following  the  Captain,  and  stood  in  the  room — in  her  room.  He 
saw  something  black  before  him,  and  waving  as  if  making  a  curtsey, 
and  heard,  but  quite  indistinctly,  Costigan  making  a  speech  over  him, 
in  which  the  Captain,  with  his  usual  magniloquence,  expressed  to 
"  me  child  "  his  wish  to  make  her  known  to  "  his  dear  and  admirable 
young  friend,  Mr.  Awther  Pindinnis,  a  young  gentleman  of  property 
in  the  neighbourhood,  a  person  of  refoined  moind,  and  emiable 
manners,  a  sinsare  lover  of  poethry,  and  a  man  possest  of  a  feeling 
and  affectionate  heart." 

"It  is  very  fine  weather,"  Miss  Fotheringay  said,  in  an  Irish 
accent,  and  with  a  deep  rich  melancholy  voice. 

"Very,"  said  Mr.  Pendennis.  In  this  romantic  way  their  conver- 
sation began  ;  and  he  found  himself  seated  on  a  chair,  and  having 
leisure  to  look  at  the  young  lady. 

She  looked  stiU  handsomer  off  the  stage  than  before  the  lamps. 
All  her  attitudes  were  naturally  grand  and  majestical.  If  she  went 
and  stood  up  against  the  mantel-piece  her  robe  draped  itself  classically 
round  her  ;  her  chin  supported  itself  on  her  hand,  the  other  lines  of 
her  form  arranged  themselves  in  full  harmonious  undulations — she 
looked  like  a  muse  in  contemplation.  If  she  sate  dowTi  on  a  cane- 
bottomcd  chair,  her  arm  rounded  itself  over  the  back  of  the  seat, 
her  hand  seemed  as  if  it  ought  to  have  a  sceptre  put  into  it,  the  folds 
of  her  dress  fell  naturally  round  her  in  order :  all  her  movements 
were  graceful  and  imperial.  In  the  morning  you  could  see  her  hair 
was  blue-black,  her  complexion  of  dazzling  fairness,  with  the  faintest 
possible  blush  flickering,  as  it  were,  in  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  were 
gray,  with  prodigious  long  lashes  ;  and  as  for  her  mouth,  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis has  given  me  subsequently  to  understand,  that  it  was  of  a 
staring  red  colour,  with  which  the  most  brilliant  geranium,  sealing-wax, 
or  Guardsman's  coat,  could  not  vie. 

"  And  ver}'  warm,"  continued  this  empress  and  Queen  of  Sheba. 

Mr.  Pen  again  assented,  and  the  conversation  rolled  on  in  this 
manner.  She  asked  Costigan  whether  he  had  had  a  pleasant  evening 
at  the  George,  and  he  recounted  the  supper  and  the  tumblers  of 
punch.  Then  the  father  asked  her  how  she  had  been  employing  the 
morning. 

"  Bows  came,"  said  she,  "  at  ten,  and  we  studied  Ophalia.  It's 
for  the  twenty-fourth,  wlren  I  hope,  sir,  we  shall  have  the  honour  of 
seeing  ye." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  you  will,"  Mr.  Pendennis  cried ;  wondering  that 
she  could  say  "  Ophalia,"  and  speak  with  an  Irish  inflection  of  voice 
naturally,  who  had  not  the  least  Hibernian  accent  on  the  stage. 


PENDENNIS.  49 

"  I've  secured  'um  for  your  benefit,  dear,"  said  the  Captain,  tapping 
his  waistcoat  pocket,  wherein  lay  Pen's  sovereigns,  and  winking  at  Pen 
with  one  eye,  at  which  the  boy  blushed. 

"  Mr. the  gentleman's  very  obleeging,"  said  Mrs.  Haller. 

"  My  name  is  Pendennis,"  said  Pen,  blushing..  "  I — I— hope  you'll 
— you'll  remember  it."  His  heart  thumped  so  as  he  made  this  audacious 
declaration,  that  he  almost  choked  in  uttering  it. 

"  Pendennis  " — she  answered  slowly,  and  looking  him  full  in  the 
eyes,  with  a  glance  so  straight,  so  clear,  so  bright,  so  killing,  with  a 
voice  so  sweet,  so  round,  so  low,  that  the  word  and  the  glance  shot  Pen 
through  and  through,  and  perfectly  transfixed  him  with  pleasure. 

"  I  never  knew  the  name  was  so  pretty  before,"  Pen  said. 

"  'Tis  a  very  pretty  name,"  Ophelia  said.  "  Pentweazle's  not  a 
pretty  name.  Remember,  papa,  when  we  were  on  the  Norwich  Cir- 
cuit, Young  Pentweazle,  who  used  to  play  second  old  men,  and  married 
Miss  Rancy,  the  Columbine;  they're  both  engaged  in  London  now, 
at  the  Queen's,  and  get  five  pounds  a  week.  Pentweazle  wasn't  his 
real  name.  'Twas  Judkin  gave  it  him,  I  don't  know  why.  His  name 
was  Harrington ;  that  is,  his  real  name  was  Potts ;  fawther  a  clergy- 
man, very  respectable.  Harrington  was  in  London,  and  got  in  debt. 
Ye  remember,  he  came  out  in  Falkland,  to  Mrs.  Bunce's  Julia." 

"  And  a  pretty  Julia  she  was,"  the  Captain  interposed ;  "  a  woman 
of  fifty,  and  a  mother  of  ten  children!  'Tis  you  who  ought  to  have  been 
Julia,  or  my  name's  not  Jack  Costigan." 

"  I  didn't  take  the  leading  business  then,"  Miss  Fotheringay  said 
modestly ;  "  I  wasn't  fit  for't  till  Bows  taught  me." 

"  True  for  you,  my  dear,"  said  the  Captain;  and  bending  to  Pen- 
dennis, he  added,  "  Rejuiced  in  circumstances,  sir,  I  was  for  some  time 
a  fencing-master  in  Dublin ;  (there's  only  three  men  in  the  empire 
could  touch  me  with  the  foil  once,  but  Jack  Costigan's  getting  old  and 
stiff  now,  sir,)  and  my  daughter  had  an  engagement  at  the  thayater 
there;  and  'twas  there  that  my  friend,  Mr.  Bows,  gave  her  lessons, 
and  made  her  what  ye  see.  What  have  ye  done  since  Bows  went, 
Emily?" 

"  Sure  Pve  made  a  pie,"  Emily  said,  with  perfect  simplicity.  She 
pronounced  it  "  poy." 

"  If  ye'll  try  it  at  four  o'clock,  sir,  say  the  word,"  said  Costigan 
gallantly.  "  That  girl,  sir,  makes  the  best  veal  and  ham  pie  in 
England,  and  I  think  I  can  promise  ye  a  glass  of  punch  of  the  right 
flavour." 

Pen  had  promised  to  be  home  to  dinner  at  six  o'clock,  but  the 
rascal  thought  he  could  accommodate  pleasure  and  duty  in  this  point, 
and  was  only  too  eager  to  accept  this  invitation.  He  looked  on  with 
delight  and  wonder  whilst  Ophelia  busied  herself  about  the  room, 

4 


50  PENDENNIS. 

and  prepared  for  the  dinner.  She  arranged  the  glasses,  and  laid  and 
smoothed  the  little  cloth,  all  which  duties  she  performed  with  a  quiet 
grace  and  good  humour,  which  enchanted  her  guest  more  and  more. 
The  "poy"  arrived  from  the  baker's  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  little 
choir-boy's  brothers  at  the  proper  hour ;  and  at  four  o'clock,  Pen  found 
himself  at  dinner — actually  at  dinner  with  the  handsomest  woman  in 
all  creation — with  his  first  and  only  love,  whom  he  had  adored  ever 
since  when  ? — ever  since  yesterday,  ever  since  for  ever.  He  ate  a  crust 
of  her  making,  he  poured  her  out  a  glass  of  beer,  he  saw  her  drink  a 
glass  of  punch — ^just  one  wine-glass  full — out  of  the  tumbler  which  she 
mixed  for  her  papa.  She  was  perfectly  good-natured,  and  offered  to 
mix  one  for  Pendennis  too.  It  was  prodigiously  strong;  Pen  had 
never  in  his  life  drunk  so  much  spirits  and  water.  Was  it  the  punch,- 
or  the  punch-maker  who  intoxicated  him  ? 

Pen  tried  to  engage  her  in  conversation  about  poetry  and  about 
her  profession.  He  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  Ophelia's  madness, 
and  whether  she  was  in  love  with  Hamlet  or  not  ?  "  In  love  with 
such  a  little  ojus  wretch  as  that  stunted  manager  of  a  Bingley  ? "  She 
bristled  with  indignation  at  the  thought.  Pen  explained  it  was  not  of 
her  he  spoke,  but  of  Ophelia  of  the  play.  "  Oh,  indeed ;  if  no  offence 
was  meant,  none  was  taken :  but  as  for  Bingley,  indeed,  she  did  not 
value  him — not  that  glass  of  punch."  Pen  next  tried  her  on  Kotzebue. 
"  Kotzebue  ?  who  was  he  ? " — "  The  author  of  the  play  in  which  she 
had  been  performing  so  admirably."  "  She  did  not  know  that — the 
man's  name  at  the  beginning  of  the  book  was  Thompson,"  she  said. 
Pen  laughed  at  her  adorable  simplicity.  He  told  her  of  the  melan- 
choly fate  of  the  author  of  the  play,  and  how  Sand  had  killed  him.  It 
was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Miss  Costigan  had  ever  heard  of 
Mr.  Kotzebue's  existence,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  was  ver}'  much 
interested,  and  her  sympathy  sufficed  for  honest  Pen. 

And  in  the  midst  of  this  simple  conversation,  the  hour  and  a 
quarter  which  poor  Pen  could  afford  to  allow  himself,  passed  away 
only  too  quickly  ;  and  he  had  taken  leave,  he  was  gone  and  away  on 
his  rapid  road  homewards  on  the  back  of  Rebecca.  She  was  called 
upon  to  show  her  mettle  in  the  three  journeys  which  she  made 
that  day. 

"  What  was  that  he  was  talking  about,  the  madness  of  Hamlet,  and 
the  theory  of  the  great  German  critic  on  the  subject  ? "  Emily  asked  of 
her  father. 

"  'Deed  then  I  don't  know,  IMilly  dear,"  answered  the  Captain. 
"  We'll  ask  Bows  when  he  comes." 

"  Anyhow,  he's  a  nice,  fair-spoken  pretty  young  man,''  the  lady 
said :  "  how  many  tickets  did  he  take  of  you  1 " 

" 'Faith,  then,  he  took  six,  and  gev  me  two  guineas,  Milly,"  the 


PENDENNIS.  51 

Captain   said,      "  I  suppose  them  young   chaps  is  not  too  flush  of 
coin." 

"  He's  full  of  book-learning,"  Miss  Fotheringay  continued.  "  Kot- 
zebue  !  He,  he  !  what  a  droll  name  indeed,  now;  and  the  poor  fellow 
killed  by  Saad,  too  !  Did  ye  ever  hear  such  a  thing  ?  I'll  ask  Bows 
about  it,  papa  dear." 

"  A  queer  death,  sure  enough,"  ejaculated  the  Captain,  and  changed 
the  painful  theme.  "  'Tis  an  elegant  mare  the  young  gentleman  rides," 
Costigan  went  on  to  say ;  "  and  a  grand  breakfast,  intirely,  that  young 
Mister  Foker  gave  us." 

"  He's  good  for  two  private  boxes,  and  at  least  twenty  tickets,  I 
should  say,"  cried  the  daughter,  a  prudent  lass,  who  always  kept  her 
fine  eyes  on  the  main  chance. 

"  I'll  go  bail  of  that,"  answered  the  Papa ;  and  so  their  conversation 
continued  awhile,  until  the  tumbler  of  punch  was  finished ;  and  their 
hour  of  departure  soon  came,  too ;  for  at  half-past  six  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay was  to  appear  at  the  theatre  again,  whither  her  father  always 
accompanied  her;  and  stood,  as  we  have  seen,  in  the  side-scene 
watching  her,  and  drank  spirits-and-water  in  the  green-room  with  the 
company  there. 

"  How  beautiful  she  is,"  thought  Pen,  cantering  homewards.  "  How 
simple  and  how  tender!  How  charming  it  is  to  see  a  woman  of  her 
genius  busying  herself  with  the  humble  offices  of  domestic  life,  cooking 
dishes  to  make  her  old  father  comfortable,  and  brewing  him  drink  ! 
How  rude  it  was  of  me  to  begin  to  talk  about  professional  matters,  and 
how  well  she  turned  the  conversation  !  By-the-way,  she  talked  about 
professional  matters  herself ;  but  then  with  what  fun  and  humour  she 
told  the  story  of  her  comrade,  Pentweazle,  as  he  was  called !  There 
is  no  humour  like  Irish  humour.  Her  father  is  rather  tedious,  but 
thoroughly  amiable ;  and  how  fine  of  him,  giving  lessons  in  fencing 
after  he  quitted  the  army,  where  he  was  the  pet  of  the  Duke  of  Kent ! 
Fencing !  I  should  like  to  continue  my  fencing,  or  I  shall  forget  what 
Angelo  taught  me.  Uncle  Arthur  always  liked  me  to  fence — he  says 
it  is  the  exercise  of  a  gentleman.  Hang  it.  I'll  take  some  lessons  of 
Captain  Costigan.  Go  along,  Rebecca— up  the  hill,  old  lady.  Pen- 
dennis,  Pendennis— how  she  spoke  the  word  !  Emily,  Emily !  how 
good,  how  noble,  how  beautiful,  how  perfect  she  is ! " 

Now  the  reader,  who  has  had  the  benefit  of  overhearing  the  entire 
conversation  which  Pen  had  with  Miss  Fotheringay,  can  judge  for 
himself  about  the  powers  of  her  mind,  and  may  perhaps  be  disposed 
to  think  that  she  has  not  said  anything  astonishingly  humorous  or 
intellectual  in  the  course  of  the  above  interview. 

But  what  did  our  Pen  care  ?  He  saw  a  pair  of  bright  eyes,  and  he 
believed  in  them— a  beautiful  image,  and  he  fell  down  and  worshipped 


52  PENDENNIS. 

it.  He  supplied  the  meaning  which  her  words  wanted ;  and  created 
the  divinity  which  he  loved.  Was  Titania  the  first  who  fell  in  love 
with  an  ass,  or  Pygmalion  the  only,  artist  who  has  gone  crazy  about  a 
stone  ?  He  had  found  her  ;  he  had  found  what  his  soul  thirsted  after. 
He  flung  himself  into  the  stream  and  drank  with  all  his  might.  Let 
those  who  have  been  thirsty  own  how  delicious  that  first  draught  is. 
As  he  rode  down  the  avenue  towards  home — Pen  shrieked  with 
laughter  as  he  saw  the  Reverend  Mr.  Smirke  once  more  coming 
demurely  away  from  Fairoaks  on  his  pony.  Smirke  had  dawdled  and 
stayed  at  the  cottages  on  the  way,  and  then  dawdled  with  Laura  over 
her  lessons — and  then  looked  at  Mrs.  Pendennis's  gardens  and  im- 
provements until  he  had  perfectly  bored  out  that  lady :  and  he  had 
taken  his  leave  at  the  very  last  minute  without  that  invitation  to 
dinner  which  he  fondly  expected. 

Pen  was  full  of  kindness  and  triumph.  "  What,  picked  up  and 
sound .'' "  he  cried  out  laughing.  "  Come  along  back,  old  fellow,  and 
eat  my  dinner — I  have  had  mine :  but  we  will  have  a  bottle  of  the  old 
wine  and  drink  her  health,  Smirke." 

Poor  Smirke  turned  the  pony's  head  round,  and  jogged  along  with 
Arthur.  His  mother  was  charmed  to  see  him  in  such  high  spirits,  and 
welcomed  Mr.  Smirke  for  his  sake,  when  Arthur  said  he  had  forced 
the  curate  back  to  dine.  He  gave  a  most  ludicrous  account  of  the 
play  of  the  night  before,  and  of  the  acting  of  Bingley  the  manager, 
in  his  rickety  Hessians,  and  the  enormous  Mrs.  Bingley  as  the 
Countess,  in  rumpled  green  satin  and  a  Polish  cap :  he  mimicked 
them,  and  delighted  his  mother  and  little  Laura,  who  clapped  her 
hands  with  pleasiire. 

"  And  Mrs.  Haller  ? "  said  Mrs.  Pendennis. 

"  She's  a  stunner,  ma'am,"  Pen  said,  laughing,  and  using  the  words 
of  his  revered  friend,  Mr.  Foker. 

"  A  -what,  Arthur  ? "  asked  the  lady. 

"  What  is  a  stunner,  Arthur  ? "  cried  Laura,  in  the  same  voice. 

So  he  gave  them  a  queer  account  of  Mr.  Foker,  and  how  he  used 
to  be  called  Vats  and  Grains,  and  by  other  contumelious  names  at 
school :  and  how  he  was  now  exceedingly  rich,  and  a  Fellow  Com- 
moner at  St.  Boniface.  But  gay  and  communicative  as  he  was. 
Mr.  Pen  did  not  say  one  syllable  about  his  ride  to  Chatteris  that  day, 
or  about  the  new  friends  whom  he  had  made  there. 

When  the  two  ladies  retired,  Pen,  with  flashing  eyes,  filled  up  two 
great  bumpers  of  Madeira,  and  looking  Smirke  full  in  the  face  said, 
"  Here's  to  her!" 

"  Here's  to  her,"  said  the  curate  with  a  sigh,  lifting  the  glass:  and 
emptying  it,  so  that  his  face  was  a  little  pink  when  he  put  it 
down. 


PENDENNIS.  S3 

Pen  had  even  less  sleep  that  night  than  on  the  night  before.  In 
the  morning,  and  almost  before  dawn,  he  went  out  and  saddled  that 
unfortunate  Rebecca  himself,  and  rode  her  on  the  Downs  like  mad. 
Again  Love  had  roused  him — and  said,  "  Awake,  Pendennis,  I  am 
here."  That  charming  fever — that  delicious  longing— and  fire,  and 
uncertainty ;  he  hugged  them  to  him — he  would  not  have  lost  them 
for  all  the  world. 


54  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CONTAINS   BOTH  LOVE  AND  WAR. 

CICERO  and  Euripides  did  not  occupy  Mr.  Pen  much  for  some 
time  after  this,  and  honest  Mr.  Smirke  had  a  very  easy  time 
with  his  pupil.  Rebecca  was  the  animal  who  suffered  most  in  the 
present  state  of  Pen's  mind,  for,  besides  those  days  when  he  could 
publicly  announce  his  intention  of  going  to  Chatteris  to  take  a  fencing- 
lesson,  and  went  thither  with  the  knowledge  of  his  mother,  whenever 
he  saw  three  hours  clear  before  him,  the  young  rascal  made  a  rush  for 
the  city,  and  found  his  way  to  Prior's  Lane.  He  was  as  frantic  with 
vexation  when  Rebecca  went  lame,  as  Richard  at  Bosworth  when  his 
horse  was  killed  under  him :  and  got  deeply  into  the  books  of  the  man 
who  kept  the  hunting  stables  at  Chatteris  for  the  doctoring  of  his  own, 
and  the  hire  of  another  animal. 

Then,  and  perhaps  once  in  a  week,  under  pretence  of  going  to  read 
a  Greek  play  with  Smirke,  this  young  reprobate  set  off  so  as  to'be  in 
time  for  the  Competitor  down  coach,  stayed  a  couple  of  hours  in  Chat- 
teris, and  returned  on  the  Rival,  which  left  for  London  at  ten  at  night. 
Once  his  secret  was  nearly  lost  by  Smirke's  simplicity,  of  whom  Mrs. 
Pendennis  asked  whether  they  had  read  a  great  deal  the  night  before, 
or  a  question  to  that  effect.  Smirke  was  about  to  tell  the  truth,  that 
he  had  never  seen  Mr.  Pen  at  all,  when  the  latter's  boot-heel  came 
grinding  down  on  I^Ir.  Smirke's  toe  under  the  table,  and  warned  the 
curate  not  to  betray  him. 

They  had  had  conversations  on  the  tender  subject  of  course.  There 
must  be  a  confidant  and  depositary  somewhere.  When  informed, 
under  the  most  solemn  vows  of  secrecy,  of  Pen's  condition  of  mind, 
the  curate  said,  with  no  small  tremor,  "that  he  hoped  it  was  no 
unwoi'thy  object — no  unlawful  attachment,  which  Pen  had  formed  "■ — 
for  if  so,  the  poor  fellow  felt  it  would  be  his  duty  to  break  his  vow 
and  inform  Pen's  mother,  and  then  there  would  be  a  quarrel,  he  felt, 
with  sickening  apprehension,  and  he  would  never  again  have  a  chance 
of  seeing  what  he  most  liked  in  the  world. 

"  Unlawful,  unworthy  ! "  Pen  bounced  out  at  the  curate "s  question. 
"  She  is  as  pure  as  she  is  beautiful ;  I  would  give  my  heart  to  no  other 
woman.     I  keep  the  matter  a  secret  in  my  family,  because — because 


PENDENNIS.  55 

— there  are  reasons  of  a  weighty  nature  which  I  am  not  at  liberty  to 
disclose.  But  any  man  who  breathes  a  word  against  her  purity  insults 
both  her  honour  and  mine,  and — and  dammy,  I  won't  stand  it." 

Smirke,  with  a  faint  laugh,  only  said,  "  Well,  well,  don't  call  me 
out,  Arthur,  for  you  know  I  can't  fight : "  but  by  this  compromise  the 
wretched  curate  was  put  more  than  ever  into  the  power  of  his  pupil, 
and  the  Greek  and  mathematics  suffered  correspondingly. 

If  the  reverend  gentleman  had  had  much  discernment,  and  looked 
into  the  Poet's  corner  of  the  County  Chronicle,  as  it  arrived  in  the 
Wednesday's  bag,  he  might  have  seen  "  Mrs.  Haller,"  "  Passion  and 
Genius,"  "  Lines  to  Miss  Fotheringay,  of  the  Theatre  Royal,"  appearing 
every  week;  and  other  verses  of  the  most  gloomy,  thrilling,  and  pas- 
sionate cast.  But  as  these  poems  were  no  longer  signed  NEP  by 
their  artful  composer,  but  subscribed  EROS ;  neither  the  tutor  nor 
Helen,  the  good  soul,  who  cut  all  her  son's  verses  out  of  the  paper, 
knew  that  Nep  was  no  other  than  that  flaming  Eros,  who  sang  so 
vehemently  the  charms  of  the  new  actress. 

"Who  is  the  lady,"  at  last  asked  Mrs.  Pendennis,  "whom  your 
rival  is  always  singing  in  the  County  Chronicle  ?  He  writes  something 
Hke  you,  dear  Pen,  but  yours  is  much  the  best.  Have  you  seen  Miss 
Fotheringay  ?  " 

Pen  said  yes,  he  had ;  that  night  he  went  to  see  the  "  Stranger," 
she  acted  Mrs.  Haller.  By  the  way,  she  was  going  to  have  a  benefit, 
and  was  to  appear  in  Ophelia — suppose  we  were  to  go — Shakspeare 
you  know,  mother — we  can  get  horses  from  the  Clavering  Arms. 
Little  Laura  sprang  up  with  delight,  she  longed  for  a  play. 

Pen  introduced  "  Shakspeare  you  know,"  because  the  deceased 
Pendennis,  as  became  a  man  of  his  character,  professed  an  uncommon 
respect  for  the  bard  of  Avon,  in  whose  works  he  safely  said  there  was 
more  poetry  than  in  all  "Johnson's  Poets"  put  together.  And  though 
Mr.  Pendennis  did  not  much  read  the  works  in  question,  yet  he 
enjoined  Pen  to  peruse  them,  and  often  said  what  pleasure  he  should 
have,  when  the  boy  was  of  a  proper  age,  in  taking  hini  and  mother  to 
see  some  good  plays  of  the  immortal  poet. 

The  ready  tears  welled  up  in  the  kind  mother's  eyes  as  she 
remembered  these  speeches  of  the  man  who  was  gone.  She  kissed 
her  son  fondly,  and  said  she  would  go.  Laura  jumped  for  joy.  Was 
Pen  happy  ? — was  he  ashamed  ?  As  he  held  his  mother  to  him,  he 
longed  to  tell  her  all,  but  he  kept  his  counsel.  He  would  see  how  his 
mother  liked  her ;  the  play  should  be  the  thing,  and  he  would  try  his 
mother  like  Hamlet's. 

Helen,  in  her  good  humour,  asked  Mr.  Smirke  to  be  of  the  party. 
That  ecclesiastic  had  been  bred  up  by  a  fond  parent  at  Clapham,  who 
had  an  objection  to  dramatic  entertainments,  and  he  had  never  yet 


56  PENDENNIS. 

seen  a  play.  But,  Shakspeare ! — but  to  go  with  Mrs.  Pendennis  in 
her  carriage,  and  sit  a  whole  night  by  her  side ! — he  could  not  resist 
the  idea  of  so  much  pleasure,  and  made  a  feeble  speech,  in  which  he 
spoke  of  temptation  and  gratitude,  and  finally  accepted  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis's  most  kind  offer.  As  he  spoke  he  gave  her  a  look,  which  made 
her  exceedingly  uncomfortable.  She  had  seen  that  look  more  than 
once,  of  late,  pursuing  her.  He  became  more  positively  odious  every 
day  in  the  widow's  eyes. 

We  are  not  going  to  say  a  great  deal  about  Pen's  courtship  of 
Miss  Fotheringay,  for  the  reader  has  already  had  a  specimen  of  her 
conversation,  much  of  which  need  surely  not  be  reported.  Pen  sate 
with  her  hour  after  hour,  and  poured  forth  all*  his  honest  boyish  soul 
to  her.  Everything  he  knew,  or  hoped,  or  felt,  or  had  read,  or  fancied, 
he  told  to  her.  He  never  tired  of  talking  and  longing.  One  after 
another,  as  his  thoughts  rose  in  his  hot  eager  brain,  he  clothed  them 
in  words,  and  told  them  to  her.  Her  part  of  the  tete-a-teie  was  not  to 
talk,  but  to  appear  as  if  she  understood  what  Pen  talked,  and  to  look 
exceedingly  handsome  and  sympathising.  The  fact  is,  whilst  he  was 
making  one  of  his  tirades,  the  lovely  Emily,  who  could  not  compre- 
hend a  tenth  part  of  his  talk,  had  leisure  to  think  about  her  own 
affairs,  and  would  arrange  in  her  own  mind  how  they  should  dress  the 
cold  mutton,  or  how  she  would  turn  the  black  satin,  or  make  herself 
out  of  her  scarf  a  bonnet  like  Miss  Thackthwaite's  new  one,  and  so 
forth.  Pen  spouted  Byron  and  Moore;  passion  and  poetry:  her 
business  was  to  throw  up  her  eyes,  or  fixing  them  for  a  moment  on 
his  face,  to  cry,  "  Oh,  'tis  beautiful !  Ah,  how  exquisite !  Repeat 
those  lines  again."  And  off  the  boy  went,  and  she  returned  to  her 
own  simple  thoughts  about  the  turned  gown,  or  the  hashed  mutton. 

In  fact  Pen's  passion  was  not  long  a  secret  from  the  lovely  Emily 
or  her  father.  Upon  his  second  visit,  his  admiration  was  quite  evident 
to  both  of  them,  and  on  his  departure  the  old  gentleman  said  to  his 
daughter,  as  he  winked  at  her  over  his  glass  of  grog,  '"Faith,  Milly 
darling,  I  think  ye've  hooked  that  chap." 

"  Pooh,  'tis  only  a  boy,  papa  dear,"  Milly  remarked.  "  Sure  he's 
but  a  child." 

'■  Ve've  hooked  'um  anyhow,"  said  the  Captain,  "  and  let  me  tell 
yc  he's  not  a  bad  fish.  I  asked  Tom  at  the  George,  and  Flint,  the 
grocer,  where  his  mother  dales — fine  fortune — drives  in  her  chariot — 
splendid  park  and  grounds — Fairoaks  Park — only  son — property  all 
liis  own  at  twenty-one — ye  might  go  further  and  not  fare  so  well,  Miss 
Fotheringay." 

'•  Them  boys  are  mostly  talk,"  said  Milly,  seriously.  "  Ye  know  at 
Dublin  how  ye  went  on  about  young  Poldoody,  and  I've  a  whole  desk 


PENDENNIS.  57 

full  of  verses  he  wrote  me  when  he  was  in  Trinity  College ;  but  he 
went  abroad,  and  his  mother  married  him  to  an  Englishwoman." 

"  Lord  Poldoody  was  a  young  nobleman ;  and  in  them  it's  natural  ; 
and  ye  weren't  in  the  position  in  which  ye  are  now,  Milly  dear.  But 
ye  mustn't  encourage  this  young  chap  too  much,  for,  bedad.  Jack 
Costigan  won't  have  any  thrifling  with  his  daughter." 

"  No  more  will  his  daughter,  papa,  you  may  be  sure  of  that"  Milly 
said.  "  A  little  sip  more  of  the  punch,  —  sure,  'tis  beautiful.  Ye 
needn't  be  afraid  about  the  young  chap — I  think  I'm  old  enough  to 
take  care  of  myself,  Captain  Costigan." 

So  Pen  used  to  come  day  after  day,  rushing  in  and  galloping  away, 
and  growing  more  wild  about  the  girl  with  every  visit.  Sometimes 
the  Captain  was  present  at  their  meetings  ;  but  having  a  perfect  con- 
fidence in  his  daughter,  he  was  more  often  inclined  to  leave  the  young 
couple  to  themselves,  and  cocked  his  hat  over  his  eye,  and  strutted  off 
on  some  errand  when  Pen  entered.  How  delightful  those  interviews 
were !  The  Captain's  drawing-room  was  a  low  wainscoted  room, 
with  a  large  window  looking  into  the  Dean's  garden.  There  Pen  sate 
and  talked — and  talked  to  Emily,  looking  beautiful  as  she  sate  at  her 
work — looking  beautiful  and  calm,  and  the  sunshine  came  streaming 
in  at  the  great  windows,  and  lighted  up  her  superb  face  and  form.  In 
the  midst  of  the  conversation,  the  great  bell  would  begin  to  boom,  and 
he  would  pause  smiling,  and  be  silent  until  the  sound  of  the  vast  music 
died  away— or  the  rooks  in  the  cathedral  elms  would  make  a  great 
noise  towards  sunset — or  the  sound  of  the  organ  and  the  choristers 
would  come  over  the  quiet  air,  and  gently  hush  Pen's  talking. 

By  the  way,  it  must  be  said,  that  Miss  Fotheringay,  in  a  plain 
shawl  and  a  close  bonnet  and  veil,  went  to  church  every  Sunday  of  her 
life,  accompanied  by  her  indefatigable  father,  who  gave  the  responses 
in  a  very  rich  and  fine  brogue,  joined  in  the  psalms  and  chanting,  and 
behaved  in  the  most  exemplary  manner. 

Little  Bows,  the  house-friend  of  the  family,  was  exceedingly  wroth 
at  the  notion  of  Miss  Fotheringay's  marriage  with  a  stripling  seven  or 
eight  years  her  junior.  Bows,  who  was  a  cripple,  and  owned  that  he 
was  a  little  more  deformed  even  than  Bingley  the  manager,  so  that  he 
could  not  appear  on  the  stage,  was  a  singular  wild  man  of  no  small 
talents  and  humour.  Attracted  first  by  Miss  Fotheringay's  beauty,  he 
began  to  teach  her  how  to  act.  He  shrieked  out  in  his  cracked  voice 
the  parts,  and  his  pupil  learned  them  from  his  lips  by  rote,  and 
repeated  them  in  her  full  rich  tones.  He  indicated  the  attitudes,  and 
set  and  moved  those  beautiful  arms  of  hers.  Those  who  remember 
this  grand  actress  on  the  stage  can  recall  how  she  used  always  pre- 
cisely the  same  gestures,  looks,  and  tones ;  how  she  stood  on  the  same 
plank   of  the   stage   in   the   same   position,   rolled   her   eyes   at  the 


58  PENDENNIS. 

same  instant  and  to  the  same  degree,  and  wept  with  precisely  the 
same  heart-rending  pathos  and  over  the  same  pathetic  syllable.  And 
after  she  had  come  out  trembling  with  emotion  before  the  audience, 
and  looking  so  exhausted  and  tearful  that  you  fancied  she  would  faint 
with  sensibility,  she  would  gather  up  her  hair  the  instant  she  was 
behind  the  curtain,  and  go  home  to  a  mutton-chop  and  a  glass  of 
brown  stout ;  and  the  harrowing  labours  of  the  day  over,  she  went  to 
bed  and  snored  as  resolutely  and  as  regularly  as  a  porter. 

Bows  then  was  indignant  at  the  notion  that  his  pupil  should  throw 
her  chances  away  in  life  by  bestowing  her  hand  upon  a  little  country 
squire.  As  soon  as  a  London  manager  saw  her  he  prophesied  that 
she  would  get  a  London  engagement,  and  a  great  success.  The  mis- 
fortune was  that  the  London  managers  had  seen  her.  She  had  played 
in  London  three  years  before,  and  had  failed  from  utter  stupidity. 
Since  then  it  was  that  Bows  had  taken  her  in  hand  and  taught  her 
part  after  part.  How  he  worked  and  screamed,  and  twisted,  and 
repeated  lines  over  and  over  again,  and  with  what  indomitable 
patience  and  dullness  she  followed  him !  She  knew  that  he  made 
her :  and  let  herself  be  made.  She  was  not  grateful,  or  ungrateful,  or 
unkind,  or  ill-humoured.  She  was  only  stupid ;  and  Pen  was  madly 
in  love  with  her. 

The  post-horses  from  the  Clavering  Arms  arrived  in  due  time,  and 
carried  the  party  to  the  theatre  at  Chatteris,  where  Pen  was  gratified 
in  perceiving  that  a  tolerably  large  audience  was  assembled.  The 
young  gentleman  from  Baymouth  had  a  box,  in  the  front  of  which 
sate  Mr,  Foker  and  his  friend  Mr.  Spavin  splendidly  attired  in  the 
most  full-blown  evening  costume.  They  saluted  Pen  in  a  cordial 
manner,  and  examined  his  party,  of  which  they  approved,  for  little 
Laura  was  a  pretty  little  red-cheeked  girl  with  a  quantity  of  shining 
brown  ringlets,  and  Mrs.  Pendennis,  dressed  in  black  velvet  with  the 
diamond  cross  which  she  sported  on  great  occasions,  looked  uncom- 
monly handsome  and  majestic.  Behind  these  sate  Mr,  Arthur,  and 
the  gentle  Smirke  with  the  curl  reposing  on  his  fair  forehead,  and  his 
white  tie  in  perfect  order.  He  blushed  to  find  himself  in  such  a  place 
— but  how  happy  was  he  to  be  there.  He  and  Mrs.  Pendennis 
brought  books  of  "  Hamlet "  with  them  to  follow  the  tragedy,  as  is 
the  custom  of  honest  country-folks  who  go  to  a  play  in  state.  Samuel, 
coachman,  groom,  and  gardener  to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  took  his  place  in 
the  pit,  where  Mr.  Foker's  man  was  also  visible.  It  was  dotted  with 
non-commissioned  officers  of  the  Dragoons,  whose  band,  by  kind  per- 
mission of  Colonel  Swallowtail,  were,  as  usual,  in  the  orchestra ;  and 
that  corpulent  and  distinguished  warrior  himself,  with  his  Waterloo 
medal  and  a  number  of  his  young  men,  made  a  handsome  show  in 
the  boxes. 


PENDENNIS.  59 

"Who  is  that  odd-looking  person  bowing  to  you,  Arthur?"  Mrs. 
Pendennis  asked  of  her  son. 

Pen  blushed  a  great  deal.  "  His  name  is  Captain  Costigan,  ma'am," 
he  said — "a  Peninsular  officer."  In  fact  it  was  the  Captain  in  a  new 
shoot  of  clothes,  as  he  called  them,  and  with  a  large  pair  of  white  kid 
gloves,  one  of  which  he  waved  to  Pendennis,  whilst  he  laid  the  other 
sprawling  over  his  heart  and  coat-buttons.  Pen  did  not  say  any  more. 
And  how  was  Mrs.  Pendennis  to  know  that  Mr.  Costigan  was  the 
father  of  Miss  Fothe^ringay  ? 

Mr.  Hornbull,  from  London,  was  the  Hamlet  of  the  night,  Mr. 
Bingley  modestly  contenting  himself  with  the  part  of  Horatio,  and 
reserving  his  chief  strength  for  William  in  "  Black-Eyed  Susan,"  which 
was  the  second  piece. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  play :  except  to  say,  that  Ophelia 
looked  lovely,  and  performed  with  admirable  wild  pathos:  laughing, 
weeping,  gazing  wildly,  waving  her  beautiful  white  arms,  and  flinging 
about  her  snatches  of  flowers  and  songs  with  the  most  charming  mad- 
ness. What  an  opportunity  her  splendid  black  hair  had  of  tossing 
over  her  shoulders !  She  made  the  most  charming  corpse  ever  seen ; 
and  while  Hamlet  and  Laertes  were  battling  in  her  grave,  she  was 
looking  out  from  the  back  scenes  with  some  curiosity  towards  Pen's 
box,  and  the  family  party  assembled  in  it. 

There  was  but  one  voice  in  her  praise  there.  Mrs.  Pendennis  was 
in  ecstacies  with  her  beauty.  Little  Laura  was  bewildered  by  the  piece, 
and  the  Ghost,  and  the  play  within  the  play :  during  which,  as  Hamlet 
lay  at  Ophelia's  knee.  Pen  felt  that  he  would  have  liked  to  strangle 
Mr.  Hornbull,  but  cried  out  great  praises  of  that  beautiful  young  crea- 
ture. Pen  was  charmed  with  the  effect  which  she  produced  on  his 
mother — and  the  clergyman,  for  his  part,  was  exceedingly  enthusiastic. 

When  the  curtain  fell  upon  that  group  of  slaughtered  personages, 
who  are  dispatched  so  suddenly  at  the  end  of  "  Hamlet,"  and  whose 
demise  astonished  poor  little  Laura  not  a  little,  there  was  an  immense 
shouting  and  applause  from  ail  quarters  of  the  house;  the  intrepid 
Smirke,  violently  excited,  clapped  his  hands,  and  cried  out  "  Bravo, 
bravo,"  as  loud  as  the  Dragoon  officers  themselves.  These  were 
greatly  moved, — ils  s'agitaient  sur  leurs  bancs, — to  borrow  a  phrase 
from  our  neighbours.  They  were  led  cheering  into  action  by  the  portly 
Swallowtail,  who  waved  his  cap — the  non-commissioned  officers  in  the 
pit,  of  course,  gallantly  following  their  chiefs.  There  was  a  roar  of 
bravos  rang  through  the  house ;  Pen  bellowing  with  the  loudest. 
*' Fotheringay !  Fotheringay !"  Messrs.  Spavin  and  Foker  giving  the 
view  halloo  from  their  box.  Even  Mrs.  Pendennis  began  to  wave 
about  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  little  Laura  danced,  laughed, 
clapped,  and  looked  up  at  Pen  with  wonder. 


6o  PENDENNIS. 

HornbuU  led  the  baiejiciaire  fonvard,  amidst  bursts  of  enthusiasm — 
and  she  looked  so  handsome  and  radiant,  with  her  hair  still  over  her 
shoulders,  that  Pen  hardly  could  contain  himself  for  rapture :  and  he 
leaned  over  his  mother's  chair,  and  shouted  and  hurrayed,  and  waved 
his  hat.  It  was  all  he  could  do  to  keep  his  secret  from  Helen,  and  not 
say,  "  Look  !  That's  the  woman  I  Isn't  she  peerless  ?  I  tell  you  I  love 
her."  But  he  disguised  these  feelings  under  an  enormous  bellowing 
and  hurraying. 

As  for  Miss  Fotheringay  and  her  behaviour,  the  reader  is  referred 
to  a  former  page  for  an  account  of  that.  She  went  through  precisely 
the  same  business.  She  surveyed  the  house  all  round  with  glances 
of  gratitude ;  and  trembled,  and  almost  sank  with  emotion,  over  her 
favourite  trap-door.  She  seized  the  flowers  (Foker  discharged  a 
prodigious  bouquet  at  her,  and  even  Smirke  made  a  feeble  shy  with 
a  rose,  and  blushed  dreadfully  when  it  fell  into  the  pit) — she  seized 
the  flowers  and  pressed  them  to  her  swelling  heart — &c.  &c. — in  a 
word — we  refer  the  reader  to  page  35.  Twinkling  in  her  breast  poor 
old  Pen  saw  a  locket  which  he  had  bought  of  Mr.  Nathan  in  High 
Street,  with  the  last  shilling  he  was  worth,  and  a  sovereign  borrowed 
from  Smirke. 

"  Black-Eyed  Susan "  followed,  at  which  sweet  story  our  gentle- 
hearted  friends  were  exceedingly  charmed  and  aff'ected :  and  in  which 
Susan,  with  a  russet  gown  and  a  pink  ribbon  in  her  cap,  looked  to  the 
full  as  lovely  as  Ophelia.  Bingley  was  great  in  William.  Goll,  as  the 
Admiral,  looked  like  the  figure-head  of  a  seventy-four ;  and  Garbetts, 
as  Captain  Boldweather,  a  miscreant  who  forms  a  plan  for  carrying  off 
Black-Eyed  Susan,  and  waving  an  immense  cocked  hat,  says,  ''  Come 
what  may,  he  luill  be  the  ruin  of  her  "—all  these  performed  their  parts 
with  their  accustomed  talent  ;  and  it  was  with  a  sincere  regret  that  all 
our  friends  saw  the  curtain  drop  down  and  end  that  pretty  and  tender 
story. 

If  Pen  had  been  alone  with  his  mother  in  the  carriage  as  they 
went  home,  he  would  have  told  her  all  that  night ;  but  he  sate  on  the 
box  in  the  moonshine  smoking  a  cigar  by  the  side  of  Smirke,  who 
warmed  himself  with  a  comforter.  Mr.  Poker's  tandem  and  lamps 
whirled  by  the  sober  old  Clavering  posters,  as  they  were  a  couple  of 
miles  on  their  road  home,  and  Mr.  Spavin  saluted  Mrs.  Pendennis's 
carriage  with  some  considerable  variations  of  Rule  Britannia  on  the 
key-bugle. 

It  happened  two  days  after  the  above  gaieties  that  the  Dean  of 
Chatteris  entertained  a  few  select  clerical  friends  at  dinner  at  his 
Deanery  House.  That  they  drank  uncommonly  good  port  wine,  and 
abused  the  Bishop  over  their  dessert,  are  very  likely  matters,  but  with 


PENDENNIS.  6l 

such  we  have  nothing  at  present  to  do.  Our  friend  Doctor  Portman, 
of  Clavering,  was  one  of  the  Dean's  guests,  and  being  a  gallant  man, 
and  seeing  from  his  place  at  the  mahogany,  the  Dean's  lady  walking 
up  and  down  the  grass,  with  her  children  sporting  around  her,  and  her 
pink  parasol  over  her  lovely  head — the  Doctor  stept  out  of  the  French 
windows  of  the  dining-room  into  the  lawn,  which  skirts  that  apart- 
ment, and  left  the  other  white  neckcloths  to  gird  at  my  lord  Bishop. 
Then  the  Doctor  went  up  and  offered  Mrs.  Dean  his  arm,  and  they 
sauntered  over  the  ancient  velvet  lawn,  which  had  been  mowed  and 
rolled  for  immemorial  Deans,  in  that  easy,  quiet,  comfortable  manner, 
in  which  people  of  middle  age  and  good  temper  walk  after  a  good 
dinner,  in  a  calm  golden  summer  evening,  when  the  sun  has  but  just 
sunk  behind  the  enormous  cathedral  towers,  and  the  sickle-shaped 
moon  is  growing  every  instant  brighter  in  the  heavens. 

Now  at  the  end  of  the  Dean's  garden,  there  is,  as  we  have  stated, 
Mrs.  Creed's  house,  and  the  windows  of  the  first-floor  room  were  open 
to  admit  the  pleasant  summer  air.  A  young  lady  of  six-and-twenty, 
whose  eyes  were  perfectly  wide  open,  and  a  luckless  boy  of  eighteen, 
blind  with  love  and  infatuation,  were  in  that  chamber  together  ;  in 
which  persons,  as  we  have  before  seen  them  in  the  same  place,  the 
reader  will  have  no  difficulty  in  recognising  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  and 
Miss  Costigan. 

The  poor  boy  had  taken  the  plunge.  Trembling  with  passionate 
emotion,  his  heart  beating  and  throbbing  fiercely,  tears  rushing  forth 
in  spite  of  him,  his  voice  almost  choking  with  feeling,  poor  Pen  had 
said  those  words  which  he  could  withhold  no  more,  and  flung  himself 
and  his  whole  store  of  love,  and  admiration,  and  ardour,  at  the  feet  of 
this  mature  beauty.  Is  he  the  first  who  has  done  so?  Have  none 
before  or  after  him  staked  all  their  treasure  of  life,  as  a  savage  does 
his  land  and  possessions  against  a  draught  of  the  fair-skins'  fire-water, 
or  a  couple  of  bauble  eyes  ? 

"  Does  your  mother  know  of  this,  Arthur?"  said  Miss  Fotheringay, 
slowly.  He  seized  her  hand  madly  and  kissed  it  a  thousand  times. 
She  did  not  withdraw  it.  "  Does  the  old  lady  know  it  ?"  Miss  Costigan 
thought  to  herself.  "  Well,  perhaps  she  may."  And  then  she  remem- 
bered what  a  handsome  diamond  cross  Mrs.  Pendennis  had  on  the 
night  of  the  play,  and  thought,  "  Sure  'twill  go  in  the  family." 

"  Calm  yourself,  dear  Arthur,"  she  said,  in  her  low  rich  voice,  and 
smiled  sweetly  and  gravely  upon  him.  Then,  with  her  disengaged 
hand,  she  put  the  hair  lightly  off  his  throbbing  forehead.  He  was  in 
such  a  rapture  and  whirl  of  happiness  that  he  could  hardly  speak. 
At  last  he  gasped  out,  "  My  mother  has  seen  you  and  admires  you 
beyond  measure.  She  will  learn  to  love  you  soon :  who  can  do  other- 
wise ?     She  will  love  you  because  I  do." 


62  PENDEiXNTS. 

"  'Deed  then,  I  think  you  do,"  said  Miss  Costigan,  perhaps  with  a 
sort  of  pity  for  Pen. 

Think  he  did  !  Of  course  here  Mr.  Pen  went  off  into  a  rhapsody, 
which,  as  we  have  perfect  command  over  our  own  feehngs,  we  have 
no  right  to  overhear.  Let  the  poor  boy  fling  out  his  simple  heart  at 
the  woman's  feet,  and  deal  gently  with  him.  It  is  best  to  love  wisely, 
no  doubt :  but  to  love  foolishly  is  better  than  not  to  be  able  to  love  at 
all.     Some  of  us  can't:  and  are  proud  of  our  impotence  too. 

At  the  end  of  his  speech,  Pen  again  kissed  the  imperial  hand  with 
rapture — and  I  believe  it  was  at  this  very  moment,  and  while  Mrs. 
Dean  and  Doctor  Portman  were  engaged  in  conversation,  that  young 
Master  Ridley  Roset,  her  son,  pulled  his  mother  by  the  back  of  her 
capacious  dress,  and  said — 

"  I  say.  Ma !  look  up  there "  —  and  he  waggled  his  innocent 
head. 

That  was,  indeed,  a  view  from  the  Dean's  garden  such  as  seldom 
is  seen  by  Deans— or  is  written  in  Chapters.  There  was  poor  Pen 
performing  a  salute  upon  the  rosy  fingers  of  his  charmer,  who  received 
the  embrace  with  perfect  calmness  and  good-humour.  Master  Ridley 
looked  up  and  grinned,  little  Miss  Rosa  looked  at  her  brother,  and 
opened  the  mouth  of  astonishment.  Mrs.  Dean's  countenance  defied 
expression,  and  as  for  Dr.  Portman,  when  he  beheld  the  scene,  and 
saw  his  prime  favourite  and  dear  pupil  Pen,  he  stood  mute  with  rage 
and  wonder. 

Mrs.  Haller  spied  the  party  below  at  the  same  moment,  and  gave 
a  start  and  a  laugh.  "  Sure  there's  somebody  in  the  Dean's  garden," 
she  cried  out ;  and  withdrew  with  perfect  calmness,  whilst  Pen  darted 
away  with  his  face  glowing  like  coals.  The  garden  party  had  re-entered 
the  house  when  he  ventured  to  look  out  again.  The  sickle  moon  was 
blazing  bright  in  the  heavens  then,  the  stars  were  glittering,  the  bell 
of  the  cathedral  tolling  nine,  the  Dean's  guests  (all  save  one,  who  had 
called  for  his  horse  Dumpling,  and  ridden  off  early)  were  partaking  of 
tea  and  buttered  cakes  in  Mrs.  Dean's  drawing-room — when  Pen  took 
leave  of  Miss  Costigan. 

Pen  arrived  at  home  in  due  time  afterwards,  and  was  going  to  slip 
off  to  bed,  for  the  poor  lad  was  greatly  worn  and  agitated,  and  his 
high-strung  nerves  had  been  at  almost  a  maddening  pitch — when  a 
summons  came  to  him  by  John  the  old  footman,  whose  countenance 
bore  a  veiy  ominous  look,  that  his  mother  must  see  him  below. 

On  this  he  tied  on  his  neckcloth  again,  and  went  downstairs  to 
the  drawing-room.  There  sate  not  only  his  mother,  but  her  friend,  the 
Reverend  Doctor  Portman.  Helen's  face  looked  very  pale  by  the  light 
of  the  lamp — the  Doctor's  was  flushed,  on  the  contran,-,  and  quivering 
with  anger  and  emotion. 


PENDENNIS.  63 

Pen  saw  at  once  that  there  was  a  crisis,  and  that  there  had  been  a 
discovery.     "  Now  for  it,"  he  thought. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Arthur.?"  Helen  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 

"  How  can  you  look  that — that  dear  lady,  and  a  Christian  clergy^ 
man  in  the  face,  sir.?"  bounced  out  the  Doctor,  in  spite  of  Helen's 
pale,  appealing  looks.  "Where  has  he  been?  Where  his  mother's 
son  should  have  been  ashamed  to  go.  For  your  mother's  an  angel, 
sir,  an  angel.  How  dare  you  bring  pollution  into  her  house,  and  make 
that  spotless  creature  wretched  with  the  thoughts  of  your  crime?" 

"Sir!"  said  Pen. 

"  Don't  deny  it,  sir,"  roared  the  Doctor.  "  Don't  add  lies,  sir,  to 
your  other  infamy.  I  saw  you  myself,  sir.  I  saw  you  from  the  Dean's 
garden.     I  saw  you  kissing  the  hand  of  that  infernal  painted — " 

"  Stop,"  Pen  said,  clapping  his  fist  on  the  table,  till  the  lamp 
flickered  up  and  shook.  "  I  am  a  very  young  man,  but  you  will  please 
to  remember  that  I  am  a  gentleman — I  will  hear  no  abuse  of  that 
lady." 

"  Lady,  sir,"  cried  the  Doctor,  "  that  a  lady — you — you — you  stand 
in  your  mother's  presence  and  call  that — that  woman  a  lady ! " — 

"  In  anybody's  presence,"  shouted  out  Pen.  "  She  is  worthy  of  any 
place.  She  is  as  pure  as  any  woman.  She  is  as  good  as  she  is 
beautiful.  If  any  man  but  you  insulted  her,  I  would  tell  him. what  I 
thought;  but  as  you  are  my  oldest  friend,  I  suppose  you  have  the 
privilege  to  doubt  of  my  honour." 

"  No,  no.  Pen,  dearest  Pen,"  cried  out  Helen  in  an  excess  of  joy. 
"  I  told,  I  told  you.  Doctor,  he  was  not — not  what  you  thought:"  and 
the  tender  creature  coming  trembling  forward  flung  herself  on  Pen's 
shoulder. 

Pen  felt  himself  a  man,  and  a  match  for  all  the  Doctors  in 
Doctordom.  He  was  glad  this  explanation  had  come.  "You  saw 
how  beautiful  she  was,"  he  said  to  his  mother,  with  a  soothing,  pro- 
tecting air,  like  Hamlet  with  Gertrude  in  the  play.  "  I  tell  you,  dear 
mother,  she  is  as  good.  When  you  know  her  you  will  say  so.  She  is 
of  all,  except  you,  the  simplest,  the  kindest,  the  most  affectionate  of 
women.  Why  should  she  not  be  on  the  stage  ?— She  maintains  her 
father  by  her  labour." 

"  Drunken  old  reprobate,"  growled  the  Doctor,  but  Pen  did  not 
hear  or  heed. 

"  If  you  could  see,  as  I  have,  how  orderly  her  life  is,  how  pure 
and  pious  her  whole  conduct,  you  would — as  I  do — yes,  as  I  do  " — 
(with  a  savage  look  at  the  Doctor)—"  spurn  the  slanderer  who  dared 
to  do  her  wrong.  Her  father  was  an  officer,  and  distinguished  himself 
in  Spain.  He  was  a  friend  of  his  Royal  Highness  the  Duke  of 
Kent,  and  is  intimately  known  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  some 


64  PENDENNIS. 

of  the  first  officers  of  our  army.  He  has  met  my  uncle  Arthur  at 
Lord  Hill's,  he  thinks.  His  own  family  is  one  of  the  most  ancient 
and  respectable  in  Ireland,  and  indeed  is  as  good  as  our  own.  The — 
the  Costigans  were  kings  of  Ireland." 

"Why,  God  bless  my  soul,"  shrieked  out  the  Doctor,  hardly  know- 
ing whether  to  burst  with  rage  or  laughter,  "  you  don't  mean  to  say 
you  want  to  marry  her  ?  " 

Pen  put  on  his  most  princely  air.  "  What  else,  Dr.  Portman,"  he 
said,  "  do  you  suppose  would  be  my  desire  ? " 

Utterly  foiled  in  his  attack,  and  knocked  down  by  this  sudden 
lunge  of  Pen's,  the  Doctor  could  only  gasp  out,  "  Mrs.  Pendennis, 
ma'am,  send  for  the  Major." 

"  Send  for  the  Major  ?  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Arthur,  Prince  of 
Pendennis  and  Grand  Duke  of  Fairoaks,  with  a  most  superb  wave  of 
the  hand.  And  the  colloquy  terminated  by  the  writing  of  those  two 
letters  which  were  laid  on  Major  Pendennis's  breakfast-table,  in 
London,  at  the  commencement  of  Prince  Arthur's  most  veracious 
histor}'. 


PENDENNIS.  65 


CHAPTER  VII, 

IN   WHICH  THE   MAJOR   MAKES   HIS   APPEARANCE. 

OUR  acquaintance,  Major  Arthur  Pendennis,  arrived  in  due  time 
at  Fairoaks,  after  a  dreary  night  passed  in  the  mail-coach,  where 
a  stout  fellow-passenger,  swelling  preternaturally  with  great -coats, 
had  crowded  him  into  a  corner,  and  kept  him  awake  by  snoring 
indecently  ;  where  a  widow  lady,  opposite,  had  not  only  shut  out  the 
fresh  air  by  closing  all  the  windows  of  the  vehicle,  but  had  filled  the 
interior  with  fumes  of  Jamaica  rum  and  water,  which  she  sucked 
perpetually  from  a  bottle  in  her  reticule  ;  where,  whenever  he  caught 
a  brief  moment  of  sleep,  the  twanging  of  the  horn  at  the  turnpike 
gates,  or  the  scuffling  of  his  huge  neighbour  wedging  him  closer 
and  closer,  or  the  play  of  the  widow's  feet  on  his  own  tender  toes, 
speedily  woke  up  the  poor  gentleman  to  the  horrors  and  realities  of 
life — -a  life  which  has  passed  away  now,  and  become  impossible,  and 
only  lives  in  fond  memories.  Eight  miles  an  hour,  for  twenty  or 
five-and-twenty  hours,  a  tight  mail-coach,  a  hard  seat,  a  gouty 
tendency,  a  perpetual  change  of  coachmen  grumbling  because  you 
did  not  fee  them  enough,  a  fellow-passenger  partial  to  spirits-and- 
water, — who  has  not  borne  these  evils  in  the  jolly  old  times .''  and 
how  could  people  travel  under  such  difficulties .''  And  yet  they  did. 
Night  and  morning  passed,  and  the  Major,  with  a  yellow  face,  a 
bristly  beard,  a  wig  out  of  curl,  and  strong  rheumatic  griefs  shooting 
through  various  limbs  of  his  uneasy  body,  descended  at  the  little 
lodge-gate  at  Fairoaks,  where  the  porteress  and  gardener's  wife 
reverentially  greeted  him  ;  and,  still  more  respectfully,  Mr.  Morgan, 
his  man. 

Helen  was  on  the  look-out  for  this  expected  guest,  and  saw  him 
from  her  window.  But  she  did  not  come  forward  immediately  to 
greet  him.  She  knew  the  Major  did  not  like  to  be  seen  at  a  surprise, 
and  required  a  little  preparation  before  he  cared  to  be  visible.  Pen, 
when  a  boy,  had  incurred  sad  disgrace,  by  carrying  off  from  the 
Major's  dressing-table  a  little  morocco  box,  which  it  must  be  confessed 
contained  the  Major's  back  teeth,  which  he  naturally  would  leave  out 
of  his  jaws  in  a  jolting  mail-coach,  and  without  which  he  would  not 
choose  to  appear.     Morgan,  his  man,  made  a  mystery  of  mystery  o( 

5 


66  FEXDEXNIS. 

his  wigs :  curling  them  in  private  places :  introducing  them  privily  to 
his  master's  room ; — nor  without  his  head  of  hair  would  the  Major 
care  to  show  himself  to  any  member  of  his  family,  or  any  acquaint- 
ance. He  went  to  his  apartment  then  and  supplied  these  deficiencies ; 
he  groaned,  and  moaned,  and  wheezed,  and  cursed  Morgan  through 
his  toilet,  as  an  old  buck  will,  who  has  been  up  all  night  with  a  rheu- 
matism, and  has  a  long  duty  to  perform.  And  finally  being  belted, 
curled,  and  set  straight,  he  descended  upon  the  drawing-room,  with  a 
grave  majestic  air,  such  as  befitted  one  who  was  at  once  a  man  of 
business  and  a  man  of  fashion. 

Pen  was  not  there,  however;  only  Helen,  and  little  Laura  sewing 
at  her  knees ;  and  to  whom  he  never  presented  more  than  a  forefinger, 
as  he  did  on  this  occasion  after  saluting  his  sister-in-law.  Laura  took 
the  finger  trembling  and  dropped  it — and  then  fled  out  of  the  room. 
Major  Pendennis  did  not  want  to  keep  her,  or  indeed  to  have  her  in 
the  house  at  all,  and  had  his  private  reason  for  disapproving  of  her ; 
which  we  may  mention  on  some  future  occasion.  Meanwhile  Laura 
disappeared,  and  wandered  about  the  premises  seeking  for  Pen :  whom 
she  presently  found  in  the  orchard,,  pacing  up  and  down  a  walk  there 
in  earnest  conversation  with  Mr.  Smirke.  He  was  so  occupied  that  he 
did  not  hear  Laura's  clear  voice  singing  out,  until  Smirke  pulled  him 
by  the  coat,  and  pointed  towards  her  as  she  came  running. 

She  ran  up  and  put  her  hand  into  his.  "  Come  in,  Pen,"  she  said, 
"  there's  somebody  come ;  uncle  Arthurs  come." 

"  He  is,  is  he?"  said  Pen,  and  she  felt  him  grasp  her  little  hand. 
He  looked  round  at  Smirke  with  uncommon  fierceness,  as  much  as  to 
say,  I  am  ready  for  him  or  any  man — Mr.  Smirke  cast  up  his  eyes  as 
usual,  and  heaved  a  gentle  sigh. 

"  Lead  on,  Laura,"  Pen  said,  with  a  half  fierce,  half  comic  air — 
"  Lead  on,  and  say  I  wait  upon  my  uncle."  But  he  was  laughing  in 
order  to  hide  a  great  an.xiety :  and  was  screwing  his  courage  inwardly 
to  face  the  ordeal  which  he  knew  was  now  before  him. 

Pen  had  taken  Smirke  into  his  confidence  in  the  last  two  days, 
and  after  the  outbreak  attendant  on  the  discovery  of  Doctor  Portman, 
and  during  every  one  of  those  forty-eight  hours  which  he  had  passed 
in  Mr.  Smirke's  society,  had  done  nothing  but  talk  to  his  tutor  about 
Miss  Fotheringay — Miss  Emily  Fotheringay — Emily,  «S:c.,  to  all  which 
talk  Smirke  listened  without  difficulty,  for  he  was  in  love  himself, 
most  anxious  in  all  things  to  propitiate  Pen,  and  indeed  ver}-  much 
liimself  enraptured  by  the  personal  charms  of  this  goddess,  whose 
like,  never  having  been  before  at  a  theatrical  representation,  he  had 
not  beheld  until  now.  Pen's  fire  and  volubility,  his  hot  eloquence 
and  rich  poetical  tropes  and  figures,  his  manly  heart,  kind,  ardent, 
and  hopeful,  refusing  to  see  any  defects  in  the  person  he  loved,  any 


PENDENNIS.  67 

difficulties  in  their  position  that  he  might  not  overcome,  had  half  con- 
vinced Mr.  Smirke  that  the  arrangement  proposed  by  Mr.  Pen  was  a 
very  feasible  and  prudent  one,  and  that  it  would  be  a  great  comfort  to 
have  Emily  settled  at  Fairoaks,  Captain  Costigan  in  the  yellow  room, 
established  for  life  there,  and  Pen  married  at  eighteen. 

And  it  is  a  fact  that  in  these  two  days,  the  boy  had  almost  talked 
over  his  mother,  too ;  had  parried  all  her  objections  one  after  another 
with  that  indignant  good  sense  which  is  often  the  perfection  of 
absurdity ;  and  had  brought  her  almost  to  acquiesce  in  the  belief  that 
if  the  marriage  was  doomed  in  heaven,  why  doomed  it  was — that  if 
the  young  woman  was  a  good  person,  it  was  all  that  she  for  her  part 
had  to  ask ;  and  rather  to  dread  the  arrival  of  the  guardian  uncle  who 
she  foresaw  would  regard  Mr.  Pen's  marriage  in  a  manner  very 
different  to  that  simple,  romantic,  honest,  and  utterly  absurd  way,  in 
which  the  widow  was  already  disposed  to  look  at  questions  of  this 
sort.  Helen  Pendennis  was  a  country-bred  woman,  and  the  book  of 
life,  as  she  interpreted  it,  told  her  a  different  story  to  that  page  which 
is  read  in  cities.  It  pleased  her  (with  that  dismal  pleasure  which  the 
idea  of  sacrificing  themselves  gives  to  certain  women),  to  think  of  the 
day  when  she  would  give  up  all  to  Pen,  and  he  should  bring  his  wife 
home,  and  she  would  surrender  the  keys  and  the  best  bed-room,  and 
go  and  sit  at  the  side  of  the  table,  and  see  him  happy.  What  did  she 
want  in  life,  but  to  see  the  lad  prosper  ?  As  an  empress  was  certainly 
not  too  good  for  him,  and  would  be  honoured  by  becoming  Mrs.  Pen ; 
so  if  he  selected  humble  Esther  instead  of  Queen  Vashti,  she  would 
be  content  with  his  lordship's  choice.  Never  mind  how  lowly  or 
poor  the  person  might  be  who  was  to  enjoy  that  prodigious  honour, 
Mrs.  Pendennis  was  willing  to  bow  before  her  and  welcome  her,  and 
yield  her  up  the  first  place.  But  an  actress — a  mature  woman,  who 
had  long  ceased  blushing  except  with  rouge,  as  she  stood  under  the 
eager  glances  of  thousands  of  eyes — an  illiterate  and  ill-bred  person, 
very  likely,  who  must  have  lived  with  light  associates,  and  have  heard 
doubtful  conversation — Oh !  it  was  hard  that  such  a  one  should  be 
chosen,  and  that  the  matron  should  be  deposed  to  give  place  to  such 
a  Sultana. 

■  All  these  doubts  the  widow  laid  before  Pen  during  the  two  days 
which  had  of  necessity  to  elapse  ere  the  uncle  came  down ;  but  he  met 
them  with  that  happy  frankness  and  ease  which  a  young  gentleman 
exhibits  at  his  time  of  hfe,  and  routed  his  mother's  objections  with 
infinite  satisfaction  to  himself.  Miss  Costigan  was  a  paragon  of  virtue 
and  delicacy !  she  was  as  sensitive  as  the  most  timid  maiden  ;  she  was 
as  pure  as  the  unsullied  snow ;  she  had  the  finest  manners,  the  most 
graceful  wit  and  genius,  the  most  charming  refinement,  and  justness 
of  appreciation  in  all  matters  of  taste ;  she  had  the  most  admirable 


68  PENDENNIS. 

temper  and  devotion  to  her  father,  a  good  old  gentleman  of  high  family 
and  fallen  fortunes,  who  had  lived,  however,  with  the  best  society  in 
Europe:  he  was  in  no  hurry,  and  could  afford  to  wait  any  time — till  he 
was  one-and-twenty.  But  he  felt  (and  here  his  face  assumed  an  awful 
and  harrowing  solemnity)  that  he  was  engaged  in  the  one  only  passion 
of  his  life,  and  that  DEATH  alone  could  close  it. 

Helen  told  him,  with  a  sad  smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head,  that 
people  survived  these  passions,  and  as  for  long  engagements  con- 
tracted between  very  young  men  and  old  women — she  knew  an 
instance  in  her  own  family — Laura's  poor  father  was  an  instance — 
how  fatal  they  were. 

Mr.  Pen,  however,  was  resolved  that  death  must  be  his  doom  in 
case  of  disappointment,  and  rather  than  this — rather  than  baulk  him 
in  fact— this  lady  would  have  submitted  to  any  sacrifice  or  personal 
pain,  and  would  have  gone  down  on  her  knees  and  have  kissed  the 
feet  of  a  Hottentot  daughter-in-law. 

Arthur  knew  his  power  over  the  widow,  and  the  young  tyrant  was 
touched  whilst  he  exercised  it.  In  those  two  days  he  brought  her 
almost  into  submission,  and  patronized  her  very  kindly;  and  he 
passed  one  evening  with  the  lovely  pie-maker  at  Chatteris,  in  which 
he  bragged  of  his  influence  over  his  mother ;  and  he  spent  the  other 
night  in  composing  a  most  flaming  and  conceited  copy  of  verses  to 
his  divinity,  in  which  he  vowed,  like  Montrose,  that  he  would  make 
her  famous  with  his  sword  and  glorious  by  his  pen,  and  that  he  would 
love  her  as  no  mortal  woman  had  been  adored  since  the  creation  of 
womankind. 

It  was  on  that  night,  long  after  midnight,  that  wakeful  Helen, 
passing  stealthily  by  her  son's  door,  saw  a  light  streaming  through  the 
chink  of  the  door  into  the  dark  passage,  and  heard  Pen  tossing  and 
tumbling  and  mumbling  verses  in  his  bed.  She  waited  outside  for  a 
while,  anxiously  listening  to  him.  In  infantile  fevers  and  early  boyish 
illnesses,  many  a  night  before,  the  kind  soul  had  so  kept  watch.  She 
turned  the  lock  very  softly  now,  and  went  in  so  gently,  that  Pen  for  a 
moment  did  not  see  her.  His  face  was  turned  from  her.  His  papers 
on  his  desk  were  scattered  about,  and  more  were  lying  on  the  bed 
round  him.  He  was  biting  a  pencil  and  thinking  of  rhymes  and  all 
sorts  of  follies  and  passions.  He  was  Hamlet  jumping  into  Ophelia's 
grave  :  he  was  the  Stranger  taking  Mrs.  Haller  to  his  arms,  beautiful 
Mrs.  Haller,  with  the  raven  ringlets  falling  over  her  shoulders. 
Despair  and  Byron,  Thomas  Moore  and  all  the  Loves  of  the  Angels. 
Waller  and  Herrick,  Beranger  and  all  the  love-songs  he  had  ever 
read,  were  working  and  seething  in  this  young  gentleman's  mind,  and 
he  was  at  the  very  height  and  paroxysm  of  the  imaginative  phrensy. 
when  his  mother  found  him. 


PENDENNIS.  69 

"  Arthur,"  said  the  mother's  soft  silver  voice :  and  he  started  up 
and  turned  round.  He  clutched  some  of  the  papers  and  pushed  them 
under  the  pillow. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  sleep,  my  dear .'' "  she  said,  with  a  sweet 
tender  smile,  and  sate  down  on  the  bed  and  took  one  of  his  hot  hands. 

Pen  looked  at  her  wildly  for  an  instant — "  I  couldn't  sleep,"  he  said 
— "  I — I  was — I  was  writing." — And  hereupon  he  flung  his  arms  round 
her  neck  and  said,  "  O  mother!  I  love  her,  I  love  her  !'' — How  could 
such  a  kind  soul  as  that  help  soothing  and  pitying  him  ?  The  gentle 
creature  did  her  best :  and  thought  with  a  strange  wonderment  and 
tenderness,  that  it  was  only  yesterday  that  he  was  a  child  in  that  bed: 
and  how  she  used  to  come  and  say  her  prayers  over  it  before  he  woke 
upon  holiday  mornings. 

They  were  very  grand  verses,  no  doubt,  although  Miss  Fotheringay 
did  not  understand  them ;  but  old  Cos,  with  a  wipk  and  a  knowing 
finger  on  his  nose,  said,  "  Put  them  up  with  th'  bother  letthers,  Milly 
darling.  Poldoody's  pomes  was  nothing  to  this."  So  Milly  locked  up 
the  manuscripts. 

When  then,  the  Major  being  dressed  and  presentable,  presented 
himself  to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  he  found  in  the  course  of  ten  minutes' 
colloquy  that  the  poor  widow  was  not  merely  distressed  at  the  idea 
of  the  marriage  contemplated  by  Pen,  but  actually  more  distressed  at 
thinking  that  the  boy  himself  was  unhappy  about  it,  and  that  his  uncle 
and  he  should  have  any  violent  altercation  on  the  subject.  She 
besought  Major  Pendennis  to  be  very  gentle  with  Arthur :  "  He 
has  a  very  high  spirit,  and  will  not  brook  unkind  words,"  she  hinted. 
"  Doctor  Portman  spoke  to  him  rather  roughly — and  I  must  own 
unjustly,  the  other  night — for  my  dearest  boy's  honour  is  as  high 
as  any  mother  can  desire — but  Pen's  answer  quite  frightened  me,  it 
was  so  indignant.  Recollect  he  is  a  man  now ;  and  be  very — very 
cautious,"  said  the  widow,  laying  a  fair  long  hand  on  the  Major's 
sleeve. 

He  took  it  up,  kissed  it  gallantly,  and  looked  in  her  alarmed  face 
with  wonder,  and  a  scorn  which  he  was  too  polite  to  show.  '■'■  Bon 
Dieu!"  thought  the  old  negotiator,  "  the  boy  has  actually  talked  the 
woman  round,  and  she'd  get  him  a  wife  as  she  would  a  toy  if  Master 
cried  for  it.  Why  arc  there  no  such  things  as  lettrcs-dc-cacJiet — and  a 
Bastille  for  young  fellows  of  family  ?"  The  Major  lived  in  such  good 
company  that  he  might  be  excused  for  feeling  like  an  Earl. — He  kissed 
the  widow's  timid  hand,  pressed  it  in  both  his,  and  laid  it  down  on  the 
table  with  one  of  his  own  over  it,  as  he  smiled  and  looked  her  in 
the  face. 

"  Confess,-'  said  he,  "  now,  that  you  are  thinking  how  you  possibly 
can  make  it  up  to  your  conscience  to  let  the  boy  have  his  own  way?" 


70  PENDENNIS. 

She  blushed,  and  was  moved  in  the  usual  manner  of  females.  "  I 
am  thinking  that  he  is  very  unhappy — and  I  am  too — " 

"  To  contradict  him  or  to  let  him  have  his  own  wish  ?  "  asked  the 
other;  and  added,  with  great  comfort  to  his  inward  self,  "  I'm  d — d  if 
he  shall." 

"  To  think  that  he  should  have  formed  so  foolish  and  cruel  and  fatal 
an  attachment,"  the  widow  said,  "  which  can  but  end  in  pain  whatever 
be  the  issue." 

"  The  issue  shan't  be  marriage,  my  dear  sister,"  the  Major  said 
resolutely.  "  We're  not  going  to  have  a  Pendennis,  the  head  of  the 
house,  marry  a  strolling  mountebank  from  a  booth.  No,  no,  we  won't 
marr>'  into  Greenwich  Fair,  ma'am." 

"If  the  match  is  broken  suddenly  off,"  the  widow  interposed,  "  I 
don't  know  what  may  be  the  consequence.  I  know  Arthur's  ardent 
temper,  the  intensity  of  his  affections,  the  agony  of  his  pleasures  and 
disappointments,  and  I  tremble  at  this  one  if  "it  must  be.  Indeed, 
indeed,  it  must  not  come  on  him  too  suddenly." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  the  Major  said,  with  an  air  of  the  deepest  com- 
miseration, "  I've  no  doubt  Arthur  will  have  to  suffer  confoundedly 
before  he  gets  over  the  little  disappointment.  But  is  he,  think  you, 
the  only  person  who  has  been  so  rendered  miserable  ? " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Helen,  holding  down  her  eyes.  She  was 
thinking  of  her  own  case,  and  was  at  that  moment  seventeen  again, 
and  most  miserable. 

"  I,  myself,"  whispered  her  brother-in-law,  "  have  undergone  a 
disappointment  in  early  life.  A  young  woman  with  fifteen  thousand 
pounds,  niece  to  an  Earl — most  accomplished  creature — a  third  of  her 
money  would  have  run  up  my  promotion  in  no  time,  and  I  should 
have  been  a  lieutenant-colonel  at  thirty :  but  it  might  not  be.  I  was 
but  a  penniless  lieutenant:  her  parents  interfered:  and  I  embarked 
for  India,  where  I  had  the  honour  of  being  secretary-  to  Lord  Buckley, 
when  Commander-in-Chief— without  her.  \\Tiat  happened  ?  We 
returned  our  letters,  sent  back  our  locks  of  hair  (the  Major  here  passed 
his  fingers  through  his  •n'ig),  we  suffered — but  we  recovered.  She  is 
now  a  baronet's  wife  with  thirteen  grown-up  children ;  altered,  it  is 
true,  in  person ;  but  her  daughters  remind  me  of  what  she  was,  and 
the  third  is  to  be  presented  early  next  week." 

Helen  did  not  answer.  She  was  still  thinking  of  old  times.  I 
suppose  if  one  lives  to  be  a  hundred,  there  are  certain  passages  of 
one's  early  life  whereof  the  recollection  will  always  cany  us  back  to 
youth  again,  and  that  Helen  was  thinking  of  one  of  these. 

"  Look  at  my  own  brother,  my  dear  creature,"  the  Major  continued 
gallantly:  "he  himself,  you  know,  had  a  little  disappointment  when 
he  started  in  the — the  medical  profession — an  eligible  opportunity 


PENDENNIS.  71 

presented  itself.  Miss  Balls,  I  remember  the  name,  was  daughter  of 
an  apoth — a  practitioner  in  very  large  practice ;  my  brother  had  very 
nearly  succeeded  in  his  suit.  But  difficulties  arose :  disappointijients 
supervened,  and — and  I  am  sure  he  had  no  reason  to  regret  the  dis- 
appointment which  gave  him  this  hand,"  said  the  Major,  and  he  once 
more  politely  pressed  Helen's  fingers. 

"  Those  marriages  between  people  of  such  different  rank  and  age," 
said  Helen,  "  are  sad  things.  I  have  known  them  produce  a  great 
deal  of  unhappiness.  —  Laura's  father,  my  cousin,  who— who  was 
brought  up  with  me" — she  added,  in  a  low. voice,  "  was  an  instance  of 
that." 

"  Most  injudicious,"  cut  in  the  Major.  "  I  don't  know  anything 
more  painful  than  for  a  man  to  marry  his  superior  in  age  or  his  inferior 
in  station.  Fancy  marrying  a  woman  of  a  low  rank  of  life,  and  having 
your  house  filled  with  her  confounded  tag-rag-and-bobtail  relations ! 
Fancy  your  wife  attached  to  a  mother  who  dropped  her  h's,  or  called 
Maria  Marire !  How  are  you  to  introduce  her  into  society  ?  My  dear 
Mrs.  Pendeimis,  I  will  name  no  names,  but  in  the  very  best  circles 
of  London  society  I  have  seen  men  suffering  the  most  excruciating 
agony,  I  have  known  them  to  be  cut,  to  be  lost  utterly,  from  the 
vulgarity  of  their  wives'  connections.  What  did  Lady  Snapperton  do 
last  year  at  her  dejeiine  dansant  after  the  Bohemian  Ball  ?  She  told 
Lord  Brouncker  that  he  might  bring  his  daughters  or  send  them  with 
a  proper  chaperon,  but  that  she  would  not  receive  Lady  Brouncker : 
who  was  a  druggist's  daughter,  or  some  such  thing,  and  as  Tom  Wag 
remarked  of  her,  never  wanted  medicine  certainly,  for  she  never  had 
an  h  in  her  life.  Good  Ged,  what  would  have  been  the  trifling  pang 
of  a  separation  in  the  first  instance  to  the  enduring  infliction  of  a  con- 
stant vihalliance  and  intercourse  with  low  people  .''" 

"  What,  indeed ! "  said  Helen,  dimly  disposed  towards  laughter, 
but  yet  checking  the  inclination,  because  she  remembered  in  what 
prodigious  respect  her  deceased  husband  held  Major  Pendennis  and 
his  stories  of  the  great  world. 

"  Then  this  fatal  woman  is  ten  years  older  than  that  silly  young 
scapegrace  of  an  Arthur.  What  happens  in  such  cases,  my  dear 
creature  ?  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now  we  are  alone :  that  in  the 
highest  state  of  society,  misery,  undeviating  misery,  is  the  result. 
Look  at  Lord  Clodworthy  come  into  a  room  with  his  wife — why,  good 
Ged,  she  looks  like  Clodworthy's  mother.  What's  the  case  between 
Lord  and  Lady  Willowbank,  whose  love  match  was  notorious  .''  He 
has  already  cut  her  down  twice  when  she  has  hanged  herself  out  of 
jealousy  for  Mademoiselle  de  Sainte  Cunegonde,  the  dancer  j  and 
mark  my  words,  good  Ged,  one  day  he'll  not  cut  the  old  woman  down. 
No,  my  dear  madam,  you  are  not  in  the  world,  but  1  am:  you  are  a 


72  PENDENNIS. 

little  romantic  and  sentimental  (you  know  you  are — women  with  those 
large  beautiful  eyes  always  are) ;  you  must  leave  this  matter  to  my 
experience.  Marry  this  woman !  Marry  at  eighteen  an  actress  of 
thirty — bah  bah ! — I  would  as  soon  he  sent  into  the  kitchen  and 
married  the  cook." 

"  I  know  the  evils  of  premature  engagements,"  sighed  out  Helen  : 
and  as  she  has  made  this  allusion  no  less  than  thrice  in  the  course  of 
the  above  conversation,  and  seems  to  be  so  oppressed  with  the  notion 
of  long  engagements  and  unequal  marriages,  and  as  the  circumstance 
we  have  to  relate  will  explain  what  perhaps  some  persons  are  anxious 
to  know,  namely  who  little  Laura  is,  who  has  appeared  more  than 
once  before  us,  it  will  be  as  well  to  clear  up  these  points  in  another 
chapter. 


PENDENNIS.  73 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN    WHICH     PEN     IS     KEPT     WAITING    AT     THE     DOOR,    WHILE    THE 
READER   IS   INFORMED   WHO    LITl'LE   LAURA  WAS. 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  then,  there  was  a  young  gentleman  of  Cam- 
bridge University  who  came  to  pass  the  long  vacation  at  the 
village  where  young  Helen  Thistlewood  was  living  with  her  mother, 
the  widow  of  the  lieutenant  slain  at  Copenhagen.  This  gentleman, 
whose  name  was  the  Reverend  Francis  Bell,  was  nephew  to  Mrs. 
Thistlewood,  and  by  consequence,  own  cousin  to  Miss  Helen,  so  that 
it  was  very  right  that  he  should  take  lodgings  in  his  aunt's  house,  who 
lived  in  a  very  small  way;  and  there  he  passed  the  long  vacation, 
reading  with  three  or  four  pupils  who  accompanied  him  to  the  village. 
Mr.  Bell  was  fellow  of  a  college,  and  famous  in  the  University  for  his 
learning  and  skill  as  a  tutor. 

His  two  kinswomen  understood  pretty  early  that  the  reverend 
gentleman  was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  was  only  waiting  for  a 
college  living  to  enable  him  to  fulfil  his  engagement.  His  intended 
bride  was  the  daughter  of  another  parson,  who  had  acted  as  Mr.  Bell's 
own  private  tutor  in  Bell's  early  life,  and  it  was  whilst  under 
Mr.  Coacher's  roof,  indeed,  and  when  only  a  boy  of  seventeen  or 
eighteen  years  of  age,  that  the  impetuous  young  Bell  had  flung  himself 
at  the  feet  of  Miss  Martha  Coacher,  whom  he  was  helping  to  pick  peas 
in  the  garden.  On  his  knees,  before  those  peas  and  her,  he  pledged 
himself  to  an  endless  affection. 

Miss  Coacher  was  by  many  years  the  young  fellow's  senior :  and 
her  own  heart  had  been  lacerated  by  many  previous  disappointments 
in  the  matrimonial  line.  No  less  than  three  pupils  of  her  father  had 
trifled  with  those  young  affections.  The  apothecary  of  the  village  had 
despicably  jilted  her.  The  dragoon  officer,  with  whom  she  had  danced 
so  many  many  times  during  that  happy  season  which  she  passed  at 
Bath  with  her  gouty  grandmamma,  one  day  gaily  shook  his  bridle- 
rein  and  galloped  away,  never  to  return.  Wounded  by  the  shafts  of 
repeated  ingratitude,  can  it  be  wondered  at  that  the  heart  of  Martha 
Coacher  should  pant  to  find  rest  somewhere  ?  She  listened  to  the 
proposals  of  the  gawky  gallant  honest  boy,  with  great  kindness  and 
good-humour;  at  the  end  of  his  speech  she  said,  "  Law,  Bell,  I'm  sure 


74  PENDENXIS. 

you  are  too  young  to  think  of  such  things ;"  but  intimated  that  she  too 
would  revolve  them  in  her  own  virgin  bosom.  She  could  not  refer 
j\Ir.  Bell  to  her  mamma,  for  Mr.  Coacher  was  a  widower,  and  being 
immersed  in  his  books,  w^as  of  course  unable  to  take  the  direction  of  so 
frail  and  wondrous  an  article  as  a  lady's  heart,  which  Miss  Martha 
had  to  manage  for  herself. 

A  lock  of  her  hair  tied  up  in  a  piece  of  blue  ribbon,  conveyed  to  the 
happy  Bell  the  result  of  the  Vestal's  conference  with  herself.  Thrice 
before  had  she  snipt  off  one  of  her  auburn  ringlets,  and  given  them 
away.  The  possessors  were  faithless,  but  the  hair  had  gro\\Ti  again  : 
and  Martha  had  indeed  occasion  to  say  that  men  were  deceivers,  when 
she  handed  over  this  token  of  love  to  the  simple  boy. 

Number  6,  however,  was  an  exception  to  fonner  passions — Francis 
Bell  was  the  most  faithful  of  lovers.  When  his  time  arrived  to  go  to 
college,  and  it  became  necessary  to  acquaint  Mr.  Coacher  of  the 
arrangements  that  had  been  made,  the  latter  cried,  "  God  bless  my 
soul,  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  what  was  going  on ; "'  as  was  indeed  very 
likely,  for  he  had  been  taken  in  three  times  before  in  precisely  a 
similar  manner ;  and  Francis  went  to  the  University  resolved  to  conquer 
honours,  so  as  to  be  able  to  lay  them  at  the  feet  of  his  beloved  Martha, 

This  prize  in  view  made  him  labour  prodigiously.  News  came, 
term  after  term,  of  the  honours  he  won.  He  sent  the  prize-books  for 
his  college  essays  to  old  Coacher,  and  his  silver  declamation  cup  to 
Miss  Martha.  In  due  season  he  was  high  among  the  Wranglers,  and 
a  fellow  of  his  college ;  and  during  all  the  time  of  these  transactions 
a  constant  tender  correspondence  was  kept  up  with  Miss  Coacher,  to 
whose  influence,  and  perhaps  with  justice,  he  attributed  the  successes 
which  he  had  won. 

By  the  time,  however,  when  the  Rev.  Francis  Bell,  M.A.,  and 
Fellow  and  Tutor  of  his  College,  was  twenty-six  years  of  age,  it  hap- 
pened that'  Miss  Coacher  was  thirty-four,  nor  had  her  charms,  her 
manners,  or  her  temper  improved  since  that  sunny  day  in  the  spring- 
time of  life  when  he  found  her  picking  peas  in  the  garden.  Having 
achieved  his  honours,  he  relaxed  in  the  ardour  of  his  studies,  and  his 
judgment  and  tastes  also  perhaps  became  cooler.  The  sunshine  of 
the  pea-garden  faded  away  from  Miss  Martha,  and  poor  Bell  found 
himself  engaged — and  his  hand  pledged  to  that  bond  in  a  thousand 
letters — to  a  coarse,  ill-tempered,  ill-favoured,  ill-mannered,  middle- 
aged  woman. 

It  was  in  consequence  of  one  of  many  altercations  (in  which 
Martha's  eloquence  shone,  and  in  which  therefore  she  was  frequently 
pleased  to  indulge),  that  Francis  refused  to  take  his  pupils  to  Bear- 
leader's Green,  where  Mr.  Coacher's  living  was,  and  where  Bell  was 
in  the  habit  of  spending  the  summor :  and  he  bethought  him  that  he 


PENDENNIS.  75 

would  pass  the  vacation  at  his  aunt's  village,  which  he  had  not  seen 
for  many  years — not  since  little  Helen  was  a  girl,  and  used  to  sit  on 
his  knee.  Down  then  he  came  and  lived  with  them.  Helen  was 
grown  a  beautiful  young  woman  now.  The  cousins  were  nearly  four 
months  together,  from  June  to  October.  They  walked  in  the  summer 
evenings :  they  met  in  the  early  morn.  They  read  out  of  the  same 
book  when  the  old  lady  dozed  at  night  over  the  candles.  What  little 
Helen  knew,  Frank  taught  her.  She  sang  to  him  :  she  gave  her  artless 
heart  to  him.  She  was  aware  of  all  his  story.  Had  he  made  any 
secret  ? — had  he  not  shown  the  picture  of  the  woman  to  whom  he  was 
engaged,  and  with  a  blush, — her  letters,  hard,  eager,  and  cruel  ? — The 
days  went  on  and  on,  happier  and  closer,  with  more  kindness,  more 
confidence,  and  more  pity.  At  last  one  morning  in  October  came 
when  Francis  went  back  to  college,  and  the  poor  girl  felt  that  her 
tender  heart  was  gone  with  him. 

Frank  too  wakened  up  from  the  delightful  midsummer-dream  to 
the  horrible  reality  of  his  own  pain.  He  gnashed  and  tore  at  the 
chain  which  bound  him.  He  was  frantic  to  break  it  and  be  free. 
Should  he  confess  ? — give  his  savings  to  the  woman  to  whom  he  was 
bound,  and  beg  his  release? — there  was  time  yet — he  temporized.  No 
living  might  fall  in  for  years  to  come.  The  cousins  went  on  corre- 
sponding sadly  and  fondly :  the  betrothed  woman,  hard,  jealous,  and 
dissatisfied,  complaining  bitterly,  and  with  reason,  of  her  Francis's 
altered  tone. 

At  last  things  came  to  a  crisis,  and  the  new  attachment  was  dis- 
covered. Francis  owned  it,  cared  not  to  disguise  it,  rebuked  Martha 
with  her  violent  temper  and  angry  imperiousness,  and,  worst  of  all, 
.  with  her  inferiority  and  her  age. 

Her  reply  was,  that  if  he  did  not  keep  his  promise  she  would  carry 
his  letters  into  every  court  in  the  kingdom — letters  in  which  his  love 
was  pledged  to  her  ten  thousand  times  ;  and,  after  exposing  him  to  the 
world  as  the  perjurer  and  traitor  he  was,  she  would  kill  herself. 

Frank  had  one  more  interview  with  Helen,  whose  mother  was  dead 
then,  and  who  was  living  companion  with  old  Lady  Pontypool, — one 
more  interview,  where  it  was  resolved  that  he  was  to  do  his  duty ;  that 
is,  to  redeem  his  vow ;  that  is,  to  pay  a  debt  cozened  from  him  by  a 
sharper ;  that  is,  to  make  two  honest  people  miserable.  So  the  two 
judged  their  duty  to  be,  and  they  parted. 

The  living  fell  in  only  too  soon ;  but  yet  Frank  Bell  was  quite  a 
grey  and  worn-out  man  when  he  was  inducted  into  it.  Helen  wrote 
him  a  letter  on  his  marriage,  beginning,  "  My  dear  cousin,"  and  ending 
"  always  truly  yours."  She  sent  him  back  the  other  letters,  and  the 
lock  of  his  hair — all  but  a  small  piece.  She  had  it  in  her  desk  when 
she  was  talking  to  the  Major. 


76  PENDENNIS.  I 

Bell  lived  for  three  or  four  years  in  his  living,  at  the  end  of  which 
time,  the  Chaplainship  of  Coventry  Island  falling  vacant,  Frank  applied 
for  it  privately,  and  having  procured  it,  announced  the  appointment  . 
to  his  wife.     She  objected,  as  she  did  to  everything.     He  told  her  1 
bitterly  that  he  did  not  want  her  to  come :  so  she  went.     Bell  went  ' 
out   in   Governor  Crawley's  time,  and  was  very  intimate  with  that  I 
gentleman  in  his  later  years.     And  it  was  in  Coventry  Island,  years 
after  his  own  marriage,  and  five  years  after  he  had  heard  of  the  birth 
of  Helen's  boy,  that  his  own  daughter  was  born. 

She  was  not  the  daughter  of  the  first  Mrs.  Bell,  who  died  of  island 
fever  very  soon  after  Helen  Pendennis  and  her  husband,  to  whom 
Helen  had  told  everything,  wrote  to  inform  Bell  of  the  birth  of  their 
child.  "  I  was  old,  was  I  ? "  said  Mrs.  Bell  the  first ;  "  I  was  old,  and 
her  inferior,  was  I  ?  but  I  married  you,  Mr.  Bell,  and  kept  you  from 
marrying  her !  "  and  hereupon  she  died.  Bell  married  a  colonial  lady, 
whom  he  loved  fondly.  But  he  was  not  doomed  to  prosper  in  love  ; 
and,  this  lady  dying  in  child-birth,  Bell  gave  up  too :  sending  his  little 
girl  home  to  Helen  Pendennis  and  her  husband,  with  a  parting  prayer 
that  they  would  befriend  her. 

The  little  thing  came  to  Fairoaks  from  Bristol,  which  is  not  very 
far  off,  dressed  in  black,  and  in  company  of  a  soldier's  wife,  her  nurse, 
at  parting  from  whom  she  wept  bitterly.  But  she  soon  dried  up  her 
grief  under  Helen's  motherly  care. 

Round  her  neck  she  had  a  locket  with  hair,  which  Helen  had 
given,  ah  how  many  years  ago !  to  poor  Francis,  dead  and  buried. 
This  child  was  all  that  was  left  of  him,  and  she  cherished,  as  so  tender 
a  creature  would,  the  legacy  which  he  had  bequeathed  to  her.  The 
girl's  name,  as  his  dying  letter  stated,  was  Helen  Laura.  But  John 
Pendennis,  though  he  accepted  the  trust,  was  always  rather  jealous 
of  the  orphan ;  and  gloomily  ordered  that  she  should  be  called  by  her 
own  mother's  name ;  and  not  by  that  first  one  which  her  father  had 
given  her.  She  was  afraid  of  Mr.  Pendennis,  to  the  last  moment  of 
his  life.  And  it  was  only  when  her  husband  was  gone  that  Helen 
dared  openly  to  indulge  in  the  tenderness  which  she  felt  for  the  little 
girl. 

Thus  it  was  that  Laura  Bell  became  Mrs.  Pendennis's  daughter. 
Neither  her  husband  nor  that  gentleman's  brother,  the  Major,  viewed 
her  with  very  favourable  eyes.  She  reminded  the  first  of  circumstances 
in  his  wife's  life  which  he  was  forced  to  accept,  but  would  have  for- 
gotten much  more  willingly :  and  as  for  the  second,  how  could  he 
regard  her  ?  She  was  neither  related  to  his  own  family  of  Pendennis, 
nor  to  any  nobleman  in  this  empire,  and  she  had  but  a  couple  of 
thousand  pounds  for  her  fortune. 

And  now  let  Mr.  Pen  come  in,  who  has  been  waiting  all  this  while. 


PENDENNIS.  77 

Having  strung  up  his  nerves,  and  prepared  himself,  without  at  the 
loor,  for  the  meeting,  he  came  to  it,  determined  to  face  the  awful 
mole.  He  had  settled  in  his  mind  that  the  encounter  was  to  be  a 
ierce  one,  and  was  resolved  on  bearing  it  through  with  all  the  courage 
md  dignity  of  the  famous  family  which  he  represented.  And  he 
dung  open  the  door  and  entered  with  the  most  severe  and  warlike 
expression,  armed  cap-a-pie  as  it  were,  with  lance  couched  and  plumes 
displayed,  and  glancing  at  his  adversary,  as  if  to  say,  "  Come  on,  I'm 
ready." 

The  old  man  of  the  world,  as  he  surveyed  the  boy's  demeanour, 
could  hardly  help  a  grin  at  his  admirable  pompous  simplicity.  Major 
Pendennis  too  had  examined  his  ground ;  and  finding  that  the  widow 
Avas  already  half  won  over  to  the  enemy,  and  having  a  shrewd  notion 
that  threats  and  tragic  exhortations  would  have  no  effect  upon  the 
boy,  who  was  inclined  to  be  perfectly  stubborn  and  awfully  serious, 
the  Major  laid  aside  the  authoritative  manner  at  once,  and  with  the 
most  good-humoured  natural  smile  in  the  world,  held  out  his  hands 
to  Pen,  shook  the  lad's  passive  fingers  gaily,  and  said,  "  Well,  Pen, 
my  boy,  tell  us  all  about  it." 

Helen  was  delighted  with  the  generosity  of  the  Major's  good 
humour.  On  the  contrary,  it  quite  took  aback  and  disappointed  poor 
Pen,  whose  nerves  were  strung  up  for  a  tragedy,  and  who  felt  that  his 
grand  entree  was  altogether  baulked  and  ludicrous.  He  blushed  and 
winced  with  mortified  vanity  and  bewilderment.  He  felt  immensely 
inclined  to  begin  to  cry.  "  I — I — I  didn't  know  that  you  were  come 
till  just  now,"  he  said  :  "  is — is — town  very  full  I  suppose  ?" 

If  Pen  could  hardly  gulp  his  tears  down,  it  was  all  the  Major  could 
do  to  keep  from  laughter.  He  turned  round  and  shot  a  comical  glance 
at  Mrs.  Pendennis,  who  too  felt  that  the  scene  was  at  once  ridiculous 
and  sentimental.  And  so,  having  nothing  to  say,  she  went  up  and 
kissed  Mr.  Pen :  as  he  thought  of  her  tenderness  and  soft  obedience 
to  his  wishes,  it  is  very  possible  too  the  boy  was  melted. 

"  What  a  couple  of  fools  they  are,"  thought  the  old  guardian.  "  If 
I  hadn't  come  down,  she  would  have  driven  over  in  state  to  pay  a  visit 
and  give  her  blessing  to  the  young  lady's  family." 

"  Come,  come,"  said  he,  still  grinning  at  the  couple,  "  let  us  have  as 
little  sentiment  as  possible,  and  Pen,  my  good  fellow,  tell  us  the  whole 
story." 

Pen  got  back  at  once  to  his  tragic  and  heroical  air.  "  The  story  is, 
sir,"  said  he,  "  as  I  have  written  it  to  you  before.  I  have  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a  most  beautiful  and  most  virtuous  lady ;  of  a  high 
family,  although  in  reduced  circumstances ;  I  have  found  the  woman 
in  whom  I  know  that  the  happiness  of  my  life  is  centred ;  I  feel  that  I 
never,  never  can  think  about  any  woman  but  her.     I  am  aware  of  the 


78  FENDENNIS. 

difference  of  our  ages  and  other  difficulties  in  my  way.  But  my  affec- 
tion was  so  great  that  I  felt  I  could  surmount  all  these ; — that  we  both 
could  :  and  she  has  consented  to  unite  her  lot  with  mine,  and  to  accept 
my  heart  and  my  fortune." 

"  How  much  is  that,  my  boy?"  said  the  Major.  "  Has  anybody 
left  you  some  money  ?  I  don't  know  that  you  are  worth  a  shilling  in 
the  world." 

"  You  know  what  I  have  is  his,"  cried  out  Mrs.  Pendennis. 

"  Good  heavens,  madam,  hold  your  tongue ! "  was  what  the  guardian 
was  disposed  to  say ;  but  he  kept  his  temper,  not  without  a  struggle. 
"  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  he  said.  "  You  would  sacrifice  anything  for 
him.  Everybody  knows  that.  But  it  is,  after  all  then,  your  fortune 
which  Pen  is  offering  to  the  young  lady;  and  of  which  he  wishes  to 
take  possession  at  eighteen." 

"  I  know  my  mother  will  give  me  anything,"  Pen  said,  looking 
rather  disturbed. 

"  Yes,  my  good  fellow,  but  there  is  reason  in  all  things.  If  your 
mother  keeps  the  house,  it  is  but  fair  that  she  should  select  her 
company.  When  you  give  her  house  over  her  head,  and  transfer  her 
bankers  account  to  yourself  for  the  benefit  of  Miss  What-d'-you-call- 
'em — Miss  Costigan — don't  you  think  you  should  at  least  have  con- 
sulted my  sister  as  one  of  the  principal  parties  in  the  transaction  ?  I 
am  speaking  to  you,  you  see,  without  the  least  anger  or  assumption  of 
authority,  such  as  the  law  and  your  father's  will  give  me  over  you  for 
three  years  to  come — but  as  one  man  of  the  world  to  another, — and  I 
ask  you,  if  you  think  that,  because  you  can  do  what  you  like  with 
your  mother,  therefore  you  have  a  right  to  do  so  ?  As  you  are  her 
dependant,  would  it  not  have  been  more  generous  to  wait  before  you 
took  this  step,  and  at  least  to  have  paid  her  the  courtesy  to  ask  her 
leave  ? " 

Pen  held  down  his  head,  and  began  dimly  to  perceive  that  the 
action  on  which  he  had  prided  himself  as  a  most  romantic,  generous 
instance  of  disinterested  affection,  was  perhaps  a  very  selfish  and 
headstrong  piece  of  folly. 

"  I  did  it  in  a  moment  of  passion,"  said  Pen,  floundering ;  "  I  was 
not  aware  what  I  was  going  to  say  or  to  do  "  (and  in  this  he  spoke 
with  perfect  sincerity).  "  But  now  it  is  said,  and  I  stand  to  it.  No; 
I  neither  can  nor  will  recall  it.  I'll  die  rather  than  do  so.  And  I — I 
don't  want  to  burden  my  mother,"  he  continued.  "  I'll  work  for 
myself.  I'll  go  on  the  stage,  and  act  with  her.  She — she  says  I 
should  do  well  there." 

"  But  will  she  take  you  on  those  terms.'"  the  Major  interposed. 
"  Mind,  I  do  not  say  that  INIiss  Costigan  is  not  the  most  disinterested 
of  women :  but,  don't  you  suppose  now,  fairlv,  that  your  position  as  a 


PENDENNIS.  79 

young  gentleman  of  ancient  birth  and  decent  expectations,  forms  a 
part  of  the  cause  why  she  finds  your  addresses  welcome  ? " 

"  I'll  die,  I  say,  rather  than  forfeit  my  pledge  to  her,"  said  Pen, 
doubling  his  fists  and  turning  red. 

"  Who  asks  you,  my  dear  friend  ? "  answered  the  imperturbable 
guardian.  "  No  gentleman  breaks  his  word,  of  course,  when  it  has 
been  given  freely.  But  after  all,  you  can  wait.  You  owe  something 
to  your  mother,  something  to  your  family — something  to  me  as  your 
father's  representative." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  Pen  said,  feeling  rather  relieved. 

"  Well,  as  you  have  pledged  your  word  to  her,  give  us  another,  will 
you,  Arthur  ?  " 

"What  is  it?"  Arthur  asked. 

"  That  you  will  make  no  private  marriage — that  you  won't  be 
taking  a  trip  to  Scotland,  you  understand." 

"  That  would  be  a  falsehood.  Pen  never  told  his  mother  a  false- 
hood," Helen  said. 

Pen  hung  down  his  head  again,  and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears  of 
shame.  Had  not  this  whole  intrigue  been  a  falsehood  to  that  tender 
and  confiding  creature  who  was  ready  to  give  up  all  for  his  sake.  He 
gave  his  uncle  his  hand. 

"  No,  sir — on  my  word  of  honour,  as  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  "  I  will 
never  marry  without  my  mother's  consent !  "  and  giving  Helen  a  bright 
parting  look  of  confidence  and  affection  unchangeable,  the  boy  went 
out  of  the  drawing-room  into  his  own  study. 

"  He's  an  angel — he's  an  angel,"  the  mother  cried  out  in  one  of  her 
usual  raptures. 

"  He  comes  of  a  good  stock,  ma'am,"  said  her  brother-in-law — "  of 
a  good  stock  on  both  sides."  The  Major  was  greatly  pleased  with  the 
result  of  his  diplomacy — so  much  so,  that  he  once  more  saluted  the 
tips  of  Mrs.  Pendennis's  glove,  and  dropping  the  curt,  manly,  and 
straightforward  tone  in  which  he  had  conducted  the  conversation  with 
the  lad,  assumed  a  certain  drawl,  which  he  always  adopted  when  he 
was  most  conceited  and  fine. 

"  My  dear  creature,"  said  he,  in  that  his  politest  tone,  "  I  think  it 
certainly  as  well  that  I  came  down,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  last  boiie 
was  a  successful  one.  I  tell  you  how  I  came  to  think  of  it.  Three 
years  ago  my  kind  friend  Lady  Ferrybridge  sent  for  me  in  the  greatest 
state  of  alarm  about  her  son  Gretna,  whose  affair  you  remember,  and 
implored  me  to  use  my  influence  with  the  young  gentleman,  who  was 
engaged  in  an  affaire  de  cosur  with  a  Scotch  clergyman's  daughter, 
Miss  Mac  Toddy.  I  implored,  I  entreated  gentle  measures.  But 
Lord  Ferrybridge  was  furious,  and  tried  the  high  hand.  Gretna  was 
sulky  and  silent,  and  his  parents  thought  they  had  conquered.      But 


8o  •        PENDENNIS. 

what  was  the  fact,  my  dear  creature  ?  The  young  people  had  been 
married  for  three  months  before  Lord  Ferrybridge  knew  anything 
about  it.  And  that  was  why  I  extracted  the  promise  from  Master 
Pen." 

"  Arthur  would  never  have  done  so,"  Mrs.  Pendennis  said. 

"He  hasn't, — that  is  one  comfort,"  answered  the  brother-in-law. 

Like  a  wary  and  patient  man  of  the  world,  Major  Pendennis  did 
not  press  poor  Pen  any  farther  for  the  moment,  but  hoped  the  best 
from  time,  and  that  the  young  fellow's  eyes  would  be  opened  before 
long  to  see  the  absurdity  of  which  he  was  guilty.  And  having  found 
out  how  keen  the  boy's  point  of  honour  was,  he  worked  kindly  upon 
that  kindly  feeling  with  great  skill,  discoursing  him  over  their  wine 
after  dinner,  and  pointing  out  to  Pen  the  necessity  of  a  perfect 
uprightness  and  openness  in  all  his  dealings,  and  entreating  that  his 
communications  with  his  interesting  young  friend  (as  the  Major 
politely  called  Miss  Fotheringay)  should  be  carried  on  with  the  know- 
ledge, if  not  approbation,  of  Mrs.  Pendennis.  "  After  all.  Pen,"  the 
Major  said,  with  a  convenient  frankness  that  did  not  displease  the  boy, 
whilst  it  advanced  the  interests  of  the  negotiator,  "  you  must  bear  in 
mind  that  you  are  throwing  yourself  away.  Your  mother  may  submit 
to  your  marriage  as  she  would  to  anything  else  you  desired,  if  you  did 
but  cry  long  enough  for  it :  but  be  sure  of  this,  that  it  can  never  please 
her.  You  take  a  young  woman  off  the  boards  of  a  country  theatre  and 
prefer  her,  for  such  is  the  case,  to  one  of  the  finest  ladies  in  England. 
And  your  mother  will  submit  to  your  choice,  but  you  can't  suppose 
that  she  will  be  happy  under  it.  I  have  often  fancied,  cnire  jioiis,  that 
my  sister  had  it  in  her  eye  to  make  a  marriage  between  you  and  that 
little  ward  of  hers — Flora,  Laura — what's  her  name  ?  And  I  always 
determined  to  do  my  small  endeavour  to  prevent  any  such  match. 
The  child  has  but  two  thousand  pounds,  1  am  given  to  understand. 
It  is  only  with  the  utmost  economy  and  care  that  my  sister  can  provide 
for  the  decent  maintenance  of  her  house,  and  for  your  appearance  and 
education  as  a  gentleman ;  and  I  don't  care  to  own  to  you  that  I  had 
other  and  much  higher  views  for  you.  With  your  name  and  birth,  sir 
— with  your  talents,  which  I  suppose  are  respectable,  with  the  friends 
whom  I  have  the  honour  to  possess,  I  could  have  placed  you  in  an 
excellent  position — a  remarkable  position  for  a  young  man  of  such 
exceeding  small  means,  and  had  hoped  to  see  you,  at  least,  try  to 
restore  the  honours  of  our  name.  Your  mother's  softness  stopped  one 
prospect,  or  you  might  have  been  a  general,  like  our  gallant  ancestor 
who  fought  at  Ramillies  and  Malplaquet.  I  had  another  plan  in  view  : 
my  excellent  and  kind  friend.  Lord  Bag\vig,  who  is  very  well  disposed 
towards  me,  would,  I  have  little  doubt,  have  attached  you  to  his 
mission  at  Pumpernickel,  and  you  might  have  advanced  in  the  dipk)- 


PENDENNIS.  8r 

matic  service.  But,  pardon  me  for  recurring  to  the  subject ;  how  is  a 
man  to  serve  a  young  gentleman  of  eighteen,  who  proposes  to  marry  a 
lady  of  thirty,  whom  he  has  selected  from  a  booth  in  a  fair  ? — well,  not 
a  fair, — barn.  That  profession  at  once  is  closed  to  you.  The  public 
service  is  closed  to  you.  Society  is  closed  to  you.  You  see,  my  good 
friend,  to  what  you  bring  yourself.  You  may  get  on  at  the  bar  to  be 
sure,  where  1  am  given  to  understand  that  gentlemen  of  merit  occa- 
sionally marry  out  of  their  kitchens ;  but  in  no  other  profession.  Or 
you  may  come  and  live  down  here — down  here,  nion  DienI  for  ever" 
(said  the  Major,  with  a  dreary  shrug,  as  he  thought  with  inexpressible 
fondness  of  Pall  Mall),  "where  your  mother  will  receive  the  Mrs. 
Arthur  that  is  to  be,  with  perfect  kindness ;  where  the  good  people  of 
the  county  won't  visit  you ;  and  where,  by  Gad,  sir,  I  shall  be  shy  of 
visiting  you  myself,  for  I'm  a  plain-spoken  man,  and  I  own  to  you  that 
I  like  to  live  with  gentlemen  for  my  companions ;  where  you  will  have 
to  live,  with  rum-and-water-drinking  gentlemen-farmers,  and  drag 
through  your  life  the  young  husband  of  an  old  woman,  who,  if  she 
doesn't  quarrel  with  your  mother,  will  at  least  cost  that  lady  her 
position  in  society,  and  drag  her  down  into  that  dubious  caste  into 
which  you  must  inevitably  fall.  It  is  no  affair  of  mine,  my  good  sir. 
I  am  not  angr)'.  Your  downfall  will  not  hurt  me  farther  than  that  it 
will  extinguish  the  hopes  I  had  of  seeing  my  family  once  more  taking 
its  place  in  the  world.  It  is  only  your  mother  and  yourself  that  will 
be  ruined.  And  I  pity  you  both  from  my  soul.  Pass  the  claret :  it  is 
some  I  sent  to  your  poor  father ;  I  remember  I  bought  it  at  poor  Lord 
Levant's  sale.  But  of  course,"  added  the  Major,  smacking  the  wine, 
"  having  engaged  yourself,  you  will  do  what  becomes  you  as  a  man  of 
honour,  however  fatal  your  promise  may  be.  However,  promise  us  on 
our  side,  my  boy,  what  I  set  out  by  entreating  you  to  grant, — that  there 
shall  be  nothing  clandestine,  that  you  will  pursue  your  studies,  that 
you  will  only  visit  your  interesting  friend  at  proper  intervals.  Do  you 
write  to  her  much  ?" 

Pen  blushed  and  said,  "  Why,  yes,  he  had  written." 
"  I  suppose  verses,  eh !  as  well  as  prose  ?  I  was  a  dab  at  verses 
myself.  I  recollect  when  I  first  joined,  I  used  to  write  verses  for  the 
fellows  in  the  regiment ;  and  did  some  pretty  things  in  that  way.  I 
was  talking  to  my  old  friend  General  Hobbler  about  some  lines  I 
dashed  off  for  him  in  the  year  1806,  when  we  were  at  the  Cape,  and. 
Gad,  he  remembered  every  line  of  them  still ;  for  he'd  used  'em  so 
often,  the  old  rogue,  and  had  actually  tried  'em  on  Mrs.  Hobbler,  sir 
— who  brought  him  sixty  thousand  pounds.  I  suppose  you've  tried 
verses,  eh  Pen  ? " 

Pen  blushed  again,  and  said,  "  Why,  yes,  he  had  written  verses." 
"  And  does  the  fair  one  respond  in  poetry  or  prose  ? "  asked  the 

6 


82  PENDENNIS. 

jNIajor,  eyeing  his  nephew  with  the  queerest  expression,  as  much  as  to 
say,  "  O  Moses  and  Green  Spectacles !  what  a  fool  the  boy  is." 

Pen  blushed  again.  She  had  written,  but  not  in  verse,  the  young 
lover  owned,  and  he  gave  his  breast-pocket  the  benefit  of  a  squeeze 
with  his  left  arm,  which  the  Major  remarked,  according  to  his  wont. 

"  You  have  got  the  letters  there,  I  see,"  said  the  old  campaigner, 
nodding  at  Pen  and  pointing  to  his  own  chest  (which  was  manfully 
wadded  with  cotton  by  Mr.  Stultz).  "  You  know  you  have.  I  would 
give  twopence  to  see  'em." 

"  Why,"  said  Pen,  twiddling  the  stalks  of  the  strawberries,  "  I — I," 
but  this  sentence  was  never  finished ;  for  Pen's  face  was  so  comical  and 
embarrassed,  as  the  Major  watched  it,  that  the  elder  could  contain  his 
gravity  no  longer,  and  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  in  which  chorus  Pen 
himself  was  obliged  to  join  after  a  minute :  when  he  broke  out  fairly 
into  a  guffaw. 

It  sent  them  with  great  good  humour  into  Mrs.  Pendennis's 
drawing-room.  She  was  pleased  to  hear  them  laughing  in  the  hall  as 
they  crossed  it. 

"  You  sly  rascal ! "  said  the  Major,  putting  his  arm  gaily  on  Pen's 
shoulder,  and  giving  a  playful  push  at  the  boy's  breast-pocket.  He 
felt  the  papers  crackling  there  sure  enough.  The  young  fellow  was 
delighted — conceited — triumphant — and  in  one  word,  a  spoony. 

The  pair  came  to  the  tea-table  in  the  highest  spirits.  The  Majors 
politeness  was  beyond  expression.  He  had  never  tasted  such  good 
tea,  and  such  bread  was  only  to  be  had  in  the  country.  He  asked 
Mrs.  Pendennis  for  one  of  her  charming  songs.  He  then  made  Pen 
sing,  and  was  delighted  and  astonished  at  the  beauty  of  the  boy's 
voice :  he  made  his  nephew  fetch  his  maps  and  drawings,  and  praised 
them  as  really  remarkable  works  of  talent  in  a  young  fellow :  he  com- 
plimented him  on  his  French  pronunciation:  he  flattered  the  simple 
boy  as  adroitly  as  ever  lover  flattered  a  mistress :  and  when  bed-time 
came,  mother  and  son  went  to  their  several  rooms  perfectly  enchanted 
with  the  kind  Major. 

When  they  had  reached  those  apartments,  I  suppose  Helen  took 
to  her  knees  as  usual :  and  Pen  read  over  his  letters  before  going  to 
bed:  just  as  if  he  didn't  know  eveiy  word  of  them  by  heart  already. 
In  truth  there  were  but  three  of  those  documents:  and  to  learn  their 
contents  required  no  great  eftbrt  of  memor}-. 

In  No.  I,  Miss  Fotheringay  presents  grateful  compliments  to 
Mr.  Pendennis,  and  in  her  papa's  name  and  her  own  begs  to  thank 
him  for  his  tnosi  beautiful  presents.  They  will  always  be  kept  carefully; 
and  Miss  F.  and  Captain  C.  will  never  forget  the  delightful  evening 
which  they  passed  on  Tuesday  last. 


PENDENNIS.  -83 

No.  2  said — "  Dear  Sir,  we  shall  have  a  small  quiet  party  of  social 
friends  at  our  humble  board,  next  Tuesday  evening,  at  an  early  tea, 
when  I  shall  wear  the  beautiful  scarf  which,  with  its  accompajiying 
delightful  verses,  I  shall  ever,  ever  cherish :  and  papa  bids  me  say 
how  happy  he  will  be  if  you  will  join  '  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow 
of  soul '  in  our  festive  [lit tic  party,  as  I  am  sure  will  be  your  truly 
grateful 

"  Emii.y  Fotheringay." 

No.  3  was  somewhat  more  confidential,  and  showed  that  matters 
had  proceeded  rather  far.  "  You  were  odious  yesterday  night,"  the  letter 
said.  "  Why  did  you  not  come  to  the  stage-door  ?  Papa  could  not 
escort  me  on  account  of  his  eye ;  he  had  an  accident,  and  fell  down 
over  a  loose  carpet  on  the  stair  on  Sunday  night.  I  saw  you  looking 
at  Miss  Diggle  all  night;  and  you  were  so  enchanted  with  Lydia 
Languish  you  scarcely  once  looked  at  Julia.  I  could  have  crushed 
Bingley,  I  was  so  angry.  I  play  Ella  Rosenberg  on  Friday :  will  you 
come  then  ?    Miss  Diggle  performs— qvqx  your 

"  E.  F." 

These  three  letters  Air.  Pen  used  to  read  at  intervals,  during  the 
day  and  night,  and  embrace  with  that  delight  and  fervour  which  such 
beautiful  compositions  surely  warranted.  A  thousand  times  at  least 
he  had  kissed  fondly  the  musky  satin  paper,  made  sacred  to  him  by 
the  hand  of  Emily  Fotheringay.  This  was  all  he  had  in  return  for 
his  passion  and  flames,  his  vows  and  protests,  his  rhymes  and  similes, 
his  wakeful  nights  and  endless  thoughts,  his  fondness,  fears  and  folly. 
The  young  wiseacre  had  pledged  away  his  all  for  this:  signed  his 
name  to  endless  promissory  notes,  conferring  his  heart  upon  the 
bearer :  bound  himself  for  life,  and  got  back  twopence  as  an  equiva- 
lent. For  Miss  Costigan  was  a  young  lady  of  such  perfect  good 
conduct  and  self-command,  that  she  never  would  have  thought  of 
giving  more,  and  reserved  the  treasures  of  her  affection  until  she  could 
transfer  them  lawfully  at  church. 

■  Howbeit,  Mr.  Pen  was  content  with  what  tokens  of  regard  he  had 
got,  and  mumbled  over  his  three  letters  in  a  rapture  of  high  spirits, 
and  went  to  sleep  delighted  with  his  kind  old  uncle  from  London, 
who  must  evidently  yield  to  his  wishes  in  time ;  and,  in  a  word,  in  a 
preposterous  state  of  contentment  with  himself  and  all  the  world. 


84  PENDENNIS, 


CHAPTER   IX. 

IN  WHICH  THE  MAJOR  OPENS  THE   CAMPAIGN. 

LE  T  those  who  have  the  blessed  privilege  of  an  entree  into  the 
most  select  circles,  admit  that  Major  Pendennis  was  a  man  of 
no  ordinary  generosity  and  affection,  in  the  sacrifice  which  he  now 
made.  He  gave  up  London  in  May, — his  newspapers  and  his 
mornings — his  afternoons  from  club  to  club,  his  little  confidential 
visits  to  my  Ladies,  his  rides  in  Rotten  Row,  his  dinners,  and  his  stall 
at  the  Opera,  his  rapid  escapades  to  Fulham  or  Richmond  on  Satur- 
days and  Sundays,  his  bow  from  my  Lord  Duke  or  my  Lord  Marquis 
at  the  great  London  entertainments,  and  his  name  in  the  "  Morning 
Post"  of  the  succeeding  day, — his  quieter  little  festivals,  more  select, 
secret,  and  delightful — all  these  he  resigned  to  lock  himself  into  a  lone 
little  countr}'  house,  with  a  simple  widow  and  a  greenhorn  of  a  son,  a 
mawkish  curate,  and  a  little  girl  of  twelve  years  of  age. 

He  made  the  sacrifice,  and  it  was  the  greater  that  few  knew  the 
extent  of  it.  His  letters  came  down  franked  from  town,  and  he 
showed  the  invitations  to  Helen  with  a  sigh.  It  was  beautiful  and 
tragical  to  see  him  refuse  one  party  after  another — at  least  to  those 
who  could  understand,  as  Helen  didn't,  the  melancholy  grandeur  of 
his  self-denial.  Helen  did  not,  or  only  smiled  at  the  awful  pathos  with 
which  the  Major  spoke  of  the  Court  Guide  in  general :  but  young  Pen 
looked  with  great  respect  at  the  great  names  upon  the  superscriptions 
of  his  uncle's  letters,  and  listened  to  the  Majors  stories  about  the 
fashionable  world  with  constant  interest  and  sympathy. 

The  elder  Pendennis's  rich  memory  was  stored  with  thousands  of 
these  delightful  tales,  and  he  poured  them  into  Pen's  willing  car.     He 
knew  the  name  and  pedigree  of  ever}-body  in  the  Peerage,  and  everj- 
body's   relations.     "  My  dear  boy,"  he  would  say,  with   a  mournful 
earnestness  and  veracity,  "  you  cannot  begin  your  genealogical  studie 
too  early ;  I  wish  to  Heavens  you  would  read  in  Debrett  ever)'  day 
Not  so  much  the  historical  part  (for  the  pedigrees,  between  ourselves 
are  many  of  them  very  fabulous,  and  there  are  few  families  that  cai 
show   such   a  clear  descent  as  our  own)    as  the   account  of  famil 
alliances,  and  who  is  related  to  whom.     I  have  known  a  man's  caree 
in  life  blasted,  by  ignorance  on  this  all-important  subject.     Why,  onl 


PENDENNIS.  85 

last  month,  at  dinner  at  my  Lord  Hobanob's,  a  young  man,  who  has 
lately  been  received  amongst  us,  young  Mr.  Suckling  (author  of  a 
work,  I  believe),  began  to  speak  lightly  of  Admiral  Bowser's  conduct 
for  ratting  to  Ministers,  in  what  I  must  own  is  the  most  audacious 
manner.  But  who  do  you  think  sate  next  and  opposite  to  this 
Mr.  Suckling  ?  Why — why,  next  to  him  was  Lady  Grampound, 
Bowser's  daughter,  and  opposite  to  him  was  Lord  Grampound, 
Bowser's  son-in-law.  The  infatuated  young  man  went  on  cutting  his 
jokes  at  the  Admiral's  expense,  fancying  that  all  the  world  was  laugh- 
ing with  him,  and  I  leave  you  to  imagine  Lady  Hobanob's  feelings — 
Hobanob's  ! — those  of  every  well-bred  man,  as  the  wretched  intrus 
was  so  exposing  himself.  He  will  never  dine  again  in  South  Street. 
I  promise  you  thatP 

With  such  discourses  the  Major  entertained  his  nephew,  as  he 
paced  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  house  for  his  two  hours'  constitutional 
Avalk,  or  as  they  sate  together  after  dinner  over  their  wine.  He  grieved 
that  Sir  Francis  Clavering  had  not  come  down  to  the  Park,  to  live 
in  it  since  his  marriage,  and  to  make  a  society  for  the  neighbourhood. 
He  mourned  that  Lord  Eyrie  was  not  in  the  country,  that  he  might 
take  Pen  and  present  him  to  his  lordship.  "  He  has  daughters," 
the  Major  said.  "  Who  knows  "i  you  might  have  married  Lady 
Emily  or  Lady  Barbara  Trehawk  ;  but  all  those  dreams  are  over  \ 
my  poor  fellow,  you  must  lie  on  the  bed  which  you  have  made  for 
yourself." 

These  things  to  hear  did  young  Pendennis  seriously  incline.  They 
are  not  so  interesting  in  print  as  when  delivered  orally ;  but  the  Major's 
anecdotes  of  the  great  George,  of  the  Royal  Dukes,  of  the  statesmen, 
beauties,  and  fashionable  ladies  of  the  day,  filled  young  Pen's  soul 
with  longing  and  wonder;  and  he  found  the  conversations  with  his 
guardian,  which  sadly  bored  and  perplexed  poor  Mrs.  Pendennis,  for 
his  own  part  never  tedious. 

It  can't  be  said  that  Mr.  Pen's  new  guide,  philosopher  and  friend, 
discoursed  him  on  the  most  elevated  subjects,  or  treated  the  subjects 
which  he  chose  in  the  most  elevated  manner.  But  his  morality,  such 
as  it  was,  was  consistent.  It  might  not,  perhaps,  tend  to  a  man's 
progress  in  another  world,  but  it  was  pretty  well  calculated  to  advance 
his  interests  in  this;  and  then  it  must  be  remembered,  that  the  Major 
never  for  one  instant  doubted  that  his  views  were  the  only  views  prac- 
ticable, and  that  his  conduct  was  perfectly  virtuous  and  respectable. 
He  was  a  man  of  honour,  in  a  word  :  and  had  his  eyes,  what  he  called, 
open.  He  took  pity  on  this  young  greenhorn  of  a  nephew,  and  wanted 
to  open  his  eyes  too. 

No  man,  for  instance,  went  more  regularly  to  church  when  in  the 
country  than  the  old  bachelor.     "  It  don't  matter  so  much  in  town, 


86  PENDENNIS. 

Pen,"  he  said,  "  for  there  the  women  go  and  the  men  are  not  missed. 
But  when  a  gentleman  is  sur  ses  terres,  he  must  give  an  example  to 
the  country  people :  and  if  I  could  turn  a  tune,  I  even  think  I  should 
sing.  The  Duke  of  St.  David's,  whom  I  have  the  honour  of  knowing, 
always  sings  in  the  countr\^,  and  let  me  tell  you,  it  has  a  doosed  fine 
effect  from  the  family  pew.  And  you  are  somebody  down  here.  As 
long  as  the  Claverings  are  away  you  are  the  first  man  in  the  parish  : 
or  as  good  as  any.  You  might  represent  the  town  if  you  played  your 
cards  well.  Your  poor  dear  father  would  have  done  so  had  he  lived  ; 
so  might  you. — Not  if  you  marry  a  lady,  however  amiable,  whom  the 
country  people  won't  meet. — Well,  well :  it's  a  painful  subject.  Let 
us  change  it,  my  boy."  But  if  Major  Pendennis  changed  the  subject 
once  he  recurred  to  it  a  score  of  times  in  the  day:  and  the  moral  of 
his  discourse  always  was,  that  Pen  was  throwing  himself  away.  Now 
it  does  not  require  much  coaxing  or  wheedling  to  make  a  simple  boy 
believe  that  he  is  a  very  fine  fellow. 

Pen  was  glad  enough,  we  have  said,  to  listen  to  his  elders  talk. 
The  conversation  of  Captain  Costigan  became  by  no  means  pleasant 
to  him,  and  the  idea  of  that  tipsy  old  father-in-law  haunted  him  with 
terror.  He  couldn't  bring  that  man,  unshaven  and  reeking  of  punch, 
to  associate  with  his  mother.  Even  about  Emily — he  faltered  when 
the  pitiless  guardian  began  to  question  him.  "  Was  she  accom- 
plished?" He  was  obliged  to  own,  no.  "  Was  she  clever  ? "  Well, 
she  had  a  very  good  average  intellect :  but  he  could  not  absolutely 
say  she  was  clever.  "  Come,  let  us  see  some  of  her  letters."  So  Pen 
confessed  that  he  had  but  those  three  of  which  we  have  made  mention 
— and  that  they  were  but  trivial  invitations  or  answers. 

"  She  is  cautious  enough,"  the  Major  said,  drily.  "  She  is  older 
than  you,  my  poor  boy ;  "  and  then  he  apologized  with  the  utmost 
frankness  and  humility,  and  flung  himself  upon  Pen's  good  feelings, 
begging  the  lad  to  excuse  a  fond  old  uncle,  who  had  only  his  family's 
honour  in  view — for  Arthur  was  ready  to  flame  up  in  indignation 
whenever  Miss  Costigan's  honesty  was  doubted,  and  swore  that  he 
would  never  have  her  name  mentioned  lightly,  and  never,  never  would 
part  from  her. 

He  repeated  this  to  his  uncle  and  his  friends  at  home,  and  also,  it 
must  be  confessed,  to  Miss  Fotheringay  and  the  amiable  family  at 
Chatteris,  with  whom  he  still  continued  to  spend  some  portion  of  his 
time.  Miss  Emily  was  alarmed  when  she  heard  of  the  arrival  ot 
Pen's  guardian,  and  rightly  conceived  that  the  Major  came  down  with 
hostile  intentions  to  herself.  "  I  suppose  ye  intend  to  leave  me,  now 
your  grand  relation  has  come  down  from  town.  He'll  carr}-  ye  off,  and 
you'll  forget  your  poor  Emily,  Mr.  Arthur ! " 

Forget  her!     In  h^r  presence,  in  that  of  Miss  Rouncy,  the  Colum- 


PENDENNIS.  87 

bine  and  Milly's  confidential  friend  of  the  Company,  in  the  presence  of 
the  Captain  himself,  Pen  swore  he  never  could  think  of  any  other 
woman  but  his  beloved  Miss  Fotheringay ;  and  the  Captain,  looking 
up  at  his  foils,  which  were  hung  as  a  trophy  on  the  wall  of  the  room 
where  Pen  and  he  used  to  fence,  grimly  said,  he  would  not  advoise  any 
man  to  meddle  rashly  with  the  affections  of  his  darling  child;  and 
would  never  believe  his  gallant  young  Arthur,  whom  he  treated  as  his 
son,  whom  he  called  his  son,  would  ever  be  guilty  of  conduct  so 
revolting  to  every  idaya  of  honour  and  humanitee. 

He  went  up  and  embraced  Pen  after  speaking.  He  cried,  and 
wiped  his  eye  with  one  large  dirty  hand  as  he  clasped  Pen  with  the 
other.  Arthur  shuddered  in  that  grasp,  and  thought  of  his  uncle  at 
home.  His  father-in-law  looked  unusually  dirty  and  shabby;  the 
odour  of  whisky-and-water  was  even  more  decided  than  in  common. 
How  was  he  to  bring  that  man  and  his  mother  together  ?  He  trembled 
when  he  thought  that  he  had  absolutely  written  to  Costigan  (inclosing 
to  him  a  sovereign,  the  loan  of  which  the  worthy  gentleman  needed), 
and  saying,  that  one  day  he  hoped  to  sign  himself  his  affectionate  son, 
Arthur  Pendennis.  He  was  glad  to  get  away  from  Chatteris  that  day ; 
from  Miss  Rouncy  the  confida7ite ;  from  the  old  toping  father-in-law; 
from  the  divine  Emily  herself  "  O  Emily,  Emily,"  he  cried  inwardly, 
as  he  rattled  homewards  on  Rebecca,  "  you  little  know  what  sacrifices 
I  am  making  for  you  ! — for  you  who  are  always  so  cold,  so  cautious,  so 
mistrustful ! " 

Pen  never  rode  over  to  Chatteris,  but  the  Major  found  out  on  what 
errand  the  boy  had  been.  Faithful  to  his  plan.  Major  Pendennis  gave 
his  nephew  no  let  or  hindrance;  but  somehow  the  constant  feeling 
that  the  senior's  eye  was  upon  him,  an  uneasy  shame  attendant  upon 
that  inevitable  confession  which  the  evening's  conversation  would  be 
sure  to  elicit  in  the  most  natural  simple  manner,  made  Pen  go  less 
frequently  to  sigh  away  his  soul  at  the  feet  of  his  charmer  than  he  had 
been  wont  to  do  previous  to  his  uncle's  arrival.  There  was  no  use 
trying  to  deceive  him;  there  was  no  pretext  of  dining  with  Smirke,  or 
reading  Greek  plays  with  Foker ;  Pen  felt,  when  he  returned  from  one 
of  his  flying  visits,  that  everybody  knew  whence  he  came,  and  appeared 
quite  guilty  before  his  mother  and  guardian,  over  their  books  or  their 
game  at  picquet. 

Once  having  walked  out  half-a-mile,  to  the  Fairoaks'  Inn,  beyond 
the  Lodge  gates,  to  be  in  readiness  for  the  Competitor  coach,  which 
changed  horses  there,  to  take  a  run  for  Chatteris,  a  man  on  the  roof 
touched  his  hat  to  the  young  gentleman :  it  was  his  uncle's  man, 
Mr.  Morgan,  who  was  going  on  a  message  for  his  master,  and  had 
been  took  up  at  the  Lodge,  as  he  said.  And  Mr.  Morgan  came  back 
by  the  Rival,  too;  so  that  Pen  had  the  pleasure  of  that  domestic's 


88  PENDENNIS. 

company  both  ways.  Nothing  was  said  at  home.  The  lad  seemed 
to  have  every  decent  liberty ;  and  yet  he  felt  himself  dimly  watched 
and  guarded,  and  that  there  were  eyes  upon  him  even  in  the  presence 
of  his  Dulcinea. 

In  fact,  Pen's  suspicions  were  not  unfounded,  and  his  guardian  had 
sent  forth  to  gather  all  possible  information  regarding  the  lad  and  his 
interesting  young  friend.  The  discreet  and  ingenious  Mr.  Morgan,  a 
London  confidential  valet,  whose  fidelity  could  be  trusted,  had  been  to 
Chatteris  more  than  once,  and  made  every  inquiry  regarding  the  past 
history  and  present  habits  of  the  Captain  and  his  daughter.  He  deli- 
cately cross-examined  the  waiters,  the  ostlers,  and  all  the  inmates  of 
the  bar  at  the  George,  and  got  from  them  what  little  they  knew 
respecting  the  worthy  Captain.  He  was  not  held  in  ver)'  great  regard 
there,  as  it  appeared.  The  waiters  never  saw  the  colour  of  his  money, 
and  were  warned  not  to  furnish  the  poor  gentleman  with  any  liquor  for 
which  some  other  party  was  not  responsible.  He  swaggered  sadly 
about  the  coffee-room  there,  consumed  a  tooth-pick,  and  looked  over 
the  paper,  and  if  any  friend  asked  him  to  dinner  he  stayed. 

From  the  servants  of  the  officers  at  the  barracks  Mr.  Morgan 
found  that  the  Captain  had  so  frequently  and  outrageously  inebriated 
himself  there,  that  Colonel  Swallowtail  had  forbidden  him  the  mess- 
room.  The  indefatigable  Morgan  then  put  himself  in  communication 
with  some  of  the  inferior  actors  at  the  theatre,  and  pumped  them  over 
their  cigars  and  punch,  and  all  agreed  that  Costigan  was  poor,  shabby, 
and  given  to  debt  and  to  drink.  But  there  was  not  a  breath  upon  the 
reputation  of  Miss  Fotheringay  :  her  father's  courage  was  reported  to 
have  displayed  itself  on  more  than  one  occasion  towards  persons  dis- 
posed to  treat  his  daughter  with  freedom.  She  never  came  to  the  theatre 
but  with  her  father :  in  his  most  inebriated  moments,  that  gentleman 
kept  a  watch  over  her;  finally  Mr.  Morgan,  from  his  own  experience, 
added  that  he  had  been  to  see  her  hact,  and  was  uncommon  delighted 
with  the  performance,  besides  thinking  her  a  most  splendid  woman. 

Mrs.  Creed,  the  pew-opener,  confirmed  these  statements  to  Doctor 
Portman,  who  examined  her  personally.  Mrs.  Creed  had  nothing 
unfavourable  to  her  lodger  to  divulge.  She  saw  nobody  ;  only  one  or 
two  ladies  of  the  theatre.  The  Captain  did  intoxicate  himself  some- 
times, and  did  not  always  pay  his  rent  regularly,  but  he  did  when  I'.e 
had  money,  or  rather  Miss  Fotheringay  did.  Since  the  young  gentle- 
man from  Clavering  had  been  and  took  lessons  in  fencing,  one  or  two 
more  had  come  from  the  barracks ;  Sir  Derby  Oaks,  and  his  young 
friend,  Mr.  Foker,  which  was  often  together;  and  which  was  always 
driving  over  from  Baymouth  in  the  tandem.  But  on  the  occasions  of 
the  lessons.  Miss  F.  was  very  seldom  present,  and  generally  came 
downstairs  to  Mrs.  Creed's  own  room. 


PENDENNIS.  89 

The  Doctor  and  the  Major  consulting  together  as  they  often  did, 
groaned  in  spirit  over  that  information.  Major  Pendennis  openly 
expressed  his  disappointment;  and,  I  believe,  the  Divine  himself  was 
ill-pleased  at  not  being  able  to  pick  a  hole  in  poor  Miss  Fotheringay's 
reputation. 

Even  about  Pen  himself,  Mrs.  Creed's  reports  were  desperately 
favourable.  "  Whenever  he  come,"  Mrs.  Creed  said,  "  she  always 
have  me  or  one  of  the  children  with  her.  And  Mrs.  Creed,  marm, 
says  she,  if  you  please,  marm,  you'll  on  no  account  leave  the  room 
when  that  young  gentleman's  here.  And  many's  the  time  I've  seen 
him  a  lookin'  as  if  he  wished  I  was  away,  poor  young  man :  and  he 
took  to  coming  in  service  time,  when  I  wasn't  at  home,  of  course :  but 
she  always  had  one  of  the  boys  up  if  her  Pa  wasn't  at  home,  or  old 
Mr.  Bows  with  her  a  teaching  of  her  her  lesson,  or  one  of  the  young 
ladies  of  the  theayter." 

It  was  all  true :  whatever  encouragements  might  have  been  given 
him  before  he  avowed  his  passion,  the  prudence  of  Miss  Emily  was 
prodigious  after  Pen  had  declared  himself:  and  the  poor  fellow  chafed 
against  her  hopeless  reserve. 

The  Major  surveyed  the  state  of  things  with  a  sigh,  "  If  it  were 
but  a  temporary  liaison,"  the  excellent  man  said,  "  one  could  bear  it. 
A  young  fellow  must  sow  his  wild  oats,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  But 
a  virtuous  attachment  is  the  deuce.  It  comes  of  the  d — d  romantic 
notions  boys  get  from  being  brought  up  by  women." 

"  Allow  me  to  say.  Major,  that  you  speak  a  little  too  like  a  man 
of  the  world,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "  Nothing  can  be  more  desirable 
for  Pen  than  a  virtuous  attachment  for  a  young  lady  of  his  own  rank 
and  with  a  corresponding  fortune — this  present  infatuation,  of  course, 
I  must  deplore  as  sincerely  as  you  do.  If  I  were  his  guardian  I  should 
command  him  to  give  it  up." 

"  The  very  means,  I  tell  you,  to  make  him  marry  to-morrow.  We 
have  got  time  from  him,  that  is  all,  and  we  must  do  our  best  with  that." 

"  I  say,  Major,"  said  the  Doctor,  at  the  end  of  the  conversation  in 
which  the  above  subject  was  discussed — "  I  am  not,  of  course,  a  play- 
going  man — but  suppose,  I  say,  we  go  and  see  her." 

The  Major  laughed — he  had  been  a  fortnight  at  Fairoaks,  and 
strange  to  say,  had  not  thought  of  that.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  why  noc  ? 
After  all,  it  is  not  my  niece,  but  Miss  Fotheringay  the  actress,  and  we 
have  as  good  a  right  as  any  other  of  the  public  to  see  her  if  we  pay 
our  money."  So  upon  a  day  when  it  was  arranged  that  Pen  was  to 
dine  at  home,  and  pass  the  evening  with  his  mother,  the  two  elderly 
gentlemen  drove  over  to  Chatteris  in  the  Doctor's  chaise,  and  there, 
like  a  couple  of  jolly  bachelors,  dined  at  the  George  Inn,  before  pro- 
ceeding to  the  play. 


90  PENDENNIS. 

Only  two  other  guests  were  in  the  room, — an  officer  of  the  regiment 
quartered  at  Chatteris,  and  a  young  gentleman  whom  the  Doctor 
thought  he  had  somewhere  seen.  They  left  them  at  their  meal, 
however,  and  hastened  to  the  theatre.  It  was  Hamlet  over  again. 
Shakspeare  was  Article  XL.  of  stout  old  Doctor  Portman's  creed,  to 
which  he  always  made  a  point  of  testifying  publicly  at  least  once  in 
a  year. 

We  have  described  the  play  before,  and  how  those  who  saw 
Miss  Fotheringay  perform  in  Ophelia  saw  precisely  the  same  thing  on 
one  night  as  on  another.  Both  the  elderly  gentlemen  looked  at  her 
with  extraordinary  interest,  thinking  how  very  much  young  Pen  was 
charmed  with  her. 

"  Gad,"  said  the  Major,  between  his  teeth,  as  he  surveyed  her  when 
she  was  called  forward  as  usual,  and  swept  her  curtsies  to  the  scanty 
audience,  "  the  young  rascal  has  not  made  a  bad  choice." 

The  Doctor  applauded  her  loudly  and  loyally.  "  Upon  my  word," 
said  he,  "  she  is  a  very  clever  actress  ;  and  I  must  say.  Major,  she  is 
endowed  with  very  considerable  personal  attractions." 

"  So  that  young  officer  thinks  in  the  stage-box,"  Major  Pendennis 
answered,  and  he  pointed  out  to  Dr.  Portman's  attention  the  young 
dragoon  of  the  George  Coffee-room,  who  sate  in  the  box  in  question, 
and  applauded  with  immense  enthusiasm.  She  looked  extremely 
sweet  upon  him  too,  thought  the  IMajor  :  but  that's  their  way — and 
he  shut  up  his  natty  opera-glass  and  pocketed  it,  as  if  he  wished  to 
see  no  more  that  night.  Nor  did  the  Doctor,  of  course,  propose  to 
stay  for  the  after-piece,  so  they  rose  and  left  the  theatre  ;  the  Doctor 
returning  to  Mrs.  Portman,  who  was  on  a  visit  at  the  Deanerj',  and 
the  Major  walking  home  full  of  thought  towards  the  George,  where 
he  had  bespoken  a  bed. 


PENDENNIS. 


91 


CHAPTER  X. 

FACING    THE     ENEMY. 

SAUNTERING  homewards,  Major  Pendennis  reached  the  hotel 
presently,  and  found  Mr.  Morgan,  his  faithful  valet,  awaiting  him 
at  the  door,  who  stopped  his  master  as  he  was  about  to  take  a  candle 
to  go  to  bed,  and  said,  with  his  usual  air  of  knowing  deference,  "  I 
think,  sir,  if  you  would  go  into  the  coffee-room,  there's  a  young  gentle- 
man there  as  you  would  like  to  see." 

"What,  is  Mr.  Arthur  here?"  the  Major  said,  in  great  anger. 

"  No,  sir — but  his  great  friend,  Mr.  Foker,  sir.  Lady  Hagnes 
Poker's  son  is  here,  sir.  He's  been  asleep  in  the  coffee-room  since  he 
took  his  dinner,  and  has  just  rung  for  his  coffee,  sir.  And  I  think, 
p'raps,  you  might  like  to  git  into  conversation  with  him,"  the  valet 
said,  opening  the  coffee-room  door. 

The  Major  entered  ;  and  there  indeed  was  Mr.  Foker,  the  only 
occupant  of  the  place.  He  had  intended  to  go  to  the  play  too,  but 
sleep  had  overtaken  him  after  a  copious  meal,  and  he  had  flung  up 
his  legs  on  the  bench,  and  indulged  in  a  nap  instead  of  the  dramatic 
amusement.  The  Major  was  meditating  how  to  address  the  young 
man,  but  the  latter  prevented  him  that  trouble. 

"  Like  to  look  at  the  evening  paper,  sir  ? "  said  Mr.  Foker,  who 
was  always  communicative  and  affable  ;  and  he  took  up  the  "  Globe  " 
from  his  table,  and  offered  it  to  the  new  comer. 

"  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  Major,  with  a  grateful 
bow  and  smile.  "  If  I  don't  mistake  the  family  likeness,  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Henry  Foker,  Lady  Agnes  Poker's  son. 
I  have  the  happiness  to  name  her  ladyship  among  my  acquaintances, 
and  you  bear,  sir,  a  Rosherville  face." 

"  Hullo !  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Mr.  Foker  said,  "  I  took  you  " — 
he  was  going  to  say — "  I  took  you  for  a  commercial  gent."  But  he 
stopped  that  phrase.  "  To  whom  have  I  the  pleasure  of  speaking  ? " 
he  added. 

"  To  a  relative  of  a  friend  and  schoolfellow  of  yours — Arthur  Pen- 
dennis, my  nephew,  who  has  often  spoken  to  me  about  you  in  terms  of 
great  regard.  I  am  Major  Pendennis,  of  whom  you  may  have  heard 
him  speak.  May  I  take  my  soda-water  at  your  table  ?  I  have  had 
the  pleasure  of  sitting  at  your  grandfather's." 


92  PENDENNIS. 

"  Sir,  you  do  me  proud,"  said  Mr.  Foker,  with  much  courtesy. 
"  And  so  you  are  Arthur  Pendennis's  uncle,  are  you  ?" 

"  And  guardian,"  added  the  Major. 

"  He's  as  good  a  fellow  as  ever  stepped,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Foker. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  so." 

"  And  clever,  too — I  was  always  a  stupid  chap,  I  was — but  you 
see,  sir,  I  know  'em  when  they  are  clever,  and  like  'em  of  that  sort." 

"  You  show  your  taste  and  your  modesty,  too,"  said  the  Major. 
"  I  have  heard  Arthur  repeatedly  speak  of  you,  and  he  said  your 
talents  were  very  good." 

"  I'm  not  good  at  the  books,"  Mr.  Foker  said,  wagging  his  head — 
"  never  could  manage  that — Pendennis  could — he  used  to  do  half  the 
chaps' verses — and  yet  you  are  his  guardian  j  and  I  hope  you  will 
pardon  me  for  saying  that  I  think  he's  what  luc  call  a  flat,"  the  candid 
young  gentleman  said. 

The  Major  found  himself  on  the  instant  in  the  midst  of  a  most 
interesting  and  confidential  conversation.  '"  And  how  is  Arthur  a 
flat  ? "  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

"  You  know,"  Fcker  answered,  winking  at  him — he  would  have 
winked  at  the  Duke  of  Wellington  with  just  as  little  scruple.  "  You 
know  Arthur's  a  flat, — about  women  I  mean." 

"  He  is  not  the  first  of  us,  my  dear  Mr.  Harry,"  answered  the 
Major.     "  I  have  heard  something  of  this — but  pray  tell  me  more." 

"  Why,  sir,  you  see — it's  partly  my  fault.  W^e  went  to  the  play 
one  night,  and  Pen  was  struck  all  of  a  heap  with  Miss  Fotheringay — 
Costigan  her  real  name  is — an  uncommon  fine  gal  she  is  too  ;  and  the 
next  morning  1  intr®duced  him  to  the  General,  as  we  call  her  father 
— a  regular  old  scamp — and  such  a  boy  for  the  whisky-and-water ! 
— and  he's  gone  on  being  intimate  there.  And  he's  fallen  in  love 
with  her — and  I'm  blessed  if  he  hasn't  proposed  to  her,"  Foker  said, 
slapping  his  hand  on  the  table,  until  all  the  dessert  began  to  jingle. 

"  What !  you  know  it  too  .?"  asked  the  Major. 

"  Know  it !  don't  I  ?  and  many  more  too.  We  were  talking  about 
it  at  mess,  yesterday,  and  chaffing  Derby  Oaks — until  he  was  as  mad 
as  a  hatter.  Know  Sir  Derby  Oaks  ?  We  dined  together,  and  he 
went  to  the  play :  we  were  standing  at  the  door  smoking,  I  remember, 
when  you  passed  in  to  dinner." 

"  I  remember  Sir  Thomas  Oaks,  his  father,  before  he  was  a 
Baronet  or  a  Knight ;  he  lived  in  Cavendish  Square,  and  was  Physi- 
cian to  Queen  Charlotte." 

"  The  young  one  is  making  the  money  spin,  I  can  tell  you," 
Mr.  Foker  said. 

"  And  is  Sir  Derby  Oaks,"  the  Major  said,  with  great  delight  and 
anxiety,  "  another  soupirant  ?  " 


PENDENNIS.  93 

*  Another  whatf"  inquired  Mr.  Foker. 

"Another  admirer  of  Miss  Fotheringay  ?" 

"  Lord  bless  you  !  we  call  him  Mondays,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays, 
and  Pen  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays.  But  mind  you,  nothing 
wrong !  No,  no !  Miss  F.  is  a  deal  too  wide  awake  for  that,  Major 
Pendennis.  She  plays  one  off  against  the  other.  What  you  call  two 
strings  to  her  bow." 

"  I  think  you  seem  tolerably  wide  awake,  too,  Mr.  Foker,"  Pen- 
dennis said,  laughing. 

"  Pretty  well,  thank  you,  sir — how  are  you  ? "  Foker  replied,  imper- 
turbably.  "I'm  not  clever,  p'raps:  but  I  am  rather  downy;  and 
partial  friends  say  I  know  what's  o'clock  tolerably  well.  Can  I  tell 
you  the  time  of  day  in  any  way  .? " 

"  Upon  my  word,"  the  Major  answered,  quite  delighted,  "  I  think 
you  may  be  of  very  great  service  to  me.  You  are  a  young  man  of  the 
world,  and  with  such  one  likes  to  deal.  And  as  such  I  need  not 
inform  you  that  our  family  is  by  no  means  delighted  at  this  absurd 
intrigue  in  which  Arthur  is  engaged." 

"  I  should  rather  think  not,"  said  Mr.  Foker.  "  Connexion  not 
eligible.  Too  much  beer  drunk  on  the  premises.  No  Irish  need 
apply.     That  I  take  to  be  your  meaning." 

The  Major  said  it  was,  exactly :  and  he  proceeded  to  examine  his 
new  acquaintance  regarding  the  amiable  family  into  which  his  nephew 
proposed  to  enter,  and  soon  got  from  the  candid  witness  a  number  of 
particulars  regarding  the  House  of  Costigan. 

We  must  do  Mr.  Foker  the  justice  to  say  that  he  spoke  most 
favourably  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Costigan's  moral  character.  "  You  see," 
said  he,  "  I  think  the  General  is  fond  of  the  jovial  bowl,  and  if  I 
wanted  to  be  very  certain  of  my  money,  it  isn't  in  his  pocket  I'd  invest 
it — but  he  has  always  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  his  daughter,  and  neither 
he  nor  she  will  stand  anything  but  what's  honourable.  Pen's  attentions 
to  her  are  talked  about  in  the  whole  Company,  and  I  hear  all  about 
them  from  a  young  lady  who  used  to  be  very  intimate  with  her,  and 
with  whose  family  I  sometimes  take  tea  in  a  friendly  way.  Miss 
Rouncy  says,  Sir  Derby  Oaks  has  been  hanging  about  Miss  Fotherin- 
gay ever  since  his  regiment  has  been  down  here ;  but  Pen  has  come  in 
and  cut  him  out  lately,  which  has  made  the  Baronet  so  mad,  that  he 
has  been  very  near  on  the  point  of  proposing  too.  Wish  he  would ; 
and  you'd  see  which  of  the  two  Miss  Fotheringay  would  jump  at." 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  the  Major  said.  "  You  give  me  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure,  Mr.  Foker.     I  wish  I  could  have  seen  you  before." 

"  Didn't  like  to  put  in  my  oar,"  replied  the  other.  "  Don't  speak 
till  I'm  asked,  when,  if  there's  no  objections,  I  speak  pretty  freely. 
Heard  your  man  had  been  hankering  about  my  servant — didn't  know 


94  PENDENNIS. 

myself  what  was  going  od  until  Miss  Fotheringay  and  Miss  Rouncy 
had  the  row  about  the  ostrich  feathers,  when  ISIiss  R.  told  me  ever}-- 
thing." 

"  Miss  Rouncy,  I  gather,  was  the  confidante  of  the  other." 

"  Confidant  ?  I  believe  you.  ^Vhy,  she's  twice  as  clever  a  girl  as 
Fotheringay,  and  literary  and  that,  while  j\Iiss  Foth  can't  do  much 
more  than  read." 

"She  can  write,"  said  the  Major,  remembering  Pen's  breast-pocket. 

Foker  broke  out  into  a  sardonic  "  He,  he !  Rouncy  writes  her 
letters,"  he  said :  "  every  one  of  'em ;  and  since  they've  quarrelled, 
she  don't  know  how  the  deuce  to  get  on.  Miss  Rouncy  is  an  uncom- 
mon pretty  hand,  whereas  the  other  one  makes  dreadful  work  of  the 
writing  and  spelling  when  Bows  ain't  by.  Rouncy's  been  settin'  her 
copies  lately — she  writes  a  beautiful  hand,  Rouncy  does." 

"  I  suppose  you  know  it  pretty  well,"  said  the  Major,  archly :  upon 
which  Mr.  Foker  winked  at  him  again. 

"  I  would  give  a  great  deal  to  have  a  specimen  of  her  hand- 
writing," continued  Major  Pendennis,  "  I  dare  say  you  could  give  me 
one." 

"  That  would  be  too  bad,"  Foker  replied.  "  Miss  F.'s  writin'  ain't 
so  very  bad,  I  dare  say ;  only  she  got  Miss  R.  to  write  the  first  letter, 
and  has  gone  on  ever  since.  But  you  mark  my  word,  that  till  they 
are  friends  again  the  letters  will  stop." 

"  I  hope  they  will  never  be  reconciled,"  the  Major  said  with  great 
sincerity.  "  You  must  feel,  my  dear  sir,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  how 
fatal  to  my  nephew's  prospects  in  life  is  this  step  which  he  contem- 
plates, and  how  eager  we  all  must  be  to  free  him  from  this  absurd 
engagement." 

"  He  has  come  out  uncommon  strong,"  said  Mr.  Foker ;  "  I  have 
seen  his  verses ;  Rouncy  copied  'em.  And  I  said  to  myself  when  I 
saw  'em,  '  Catch  me  writin'  verses  to  a  woman, — that's  all." 

"  He  has  made  a  fool  of  himself,  as  many  a  good  fellow  has  before 
him.  How  can  we  make  him  see  his  folly,  and  cure  it  ?  I  am  sure 
you  will  give  us  what  aid  you  can  in  extricating  a  generous  young  man 
from  such  a  pair  of  schemers  as  this  father  and  daughter  seem  to  be. 
Love  on  the  lady's  side  is  out  of  the  question." 

"  Love,  indeed ! "  Foker  said.  "  If  Pen  hadn't  two  thousand  a-year 
when  he  came  of  age — " 

"  If  Pen  hadn't  luhat?"  cried  out  the  Major  in  astonishment. 

"  Two  thousand  a-year  :  hasn't  he  got  t%vo  thousand  a-year  ? — the 
General  says  he  has." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  shrieked, out  the  Major,  with  an  eagerness  which 
this  gentleman  rarely  showed, "  thank  you  !— thank  you  !— I  begin  to  see 
now. — Two  thousand  a-year  !     Why,  his  mother  has  but  five  hundred 


PENDENNIS.  95 

a-year  in  the  world. — She  is  Hkely  to  hve  to  eighty,  and  Arthur  has 
not  a  shilling  but  what  she  can  allow  him." 

"  What !  he  ain't  rich  then  ? "  Foker  asked. 

"  Upon  my  honour  he  has  no  more  than  what  I  say." 

"  And  you  ain't  going  to  leave  him  anything?'' 

The  Major  had  sunk  every  shilling  he  could  scrape  together  on 
an  annuity,  and  of  course  was  going  to  leave  Pen  nothing;  but  he  did 
not  tell  Foker  this.  "  How  much  do  you  think  a  Major  on  half-pay 
can  save?"  he  asked.  "  If  these  people  have  been  looking  at  him  as 
a  fortune,  they  are  utterly  mistaken — and — and  you  have  made  me  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world." 

"  Sir  to  YOU,"  said  Mr.  Foker,  politely,  and  when  they  parted  for 
the  night  they  shook  hands  with  the  greatest  cordiality;  the  younger 
gentleman  promising  the  elder  not  to  leave  Chatteris  without  a  further 
conversation  in  the  morning.  And  as  the  Major  went  up  to  his  room, 
and  Mr.  Foker  smoked  his  cigar  against  the  door  pillars  of  the  George, 
Pen,  very  likely,  ten  miles  off,  was  lying  in  bed  kissing  the  letter  from 
his  Emily. 

The  next  morning,  before  Mr.  Foker  drove  off  in  his  drag,  the 
insinuating  Major  had  actually  got  a  letter  of  Miss  Rouncy's  in  his 
own  pocket-book.  Let  it  be  a  lesson  to  women  how  they  write.  And 
in  very  high  spirits  Major  Pendennis  went  to  call  upon  Doctor  Portman 
at  the  Deanery,  and  told  him  what  happy  discoveries  he  had  made  on 
the  previous  night.  As  they  sate  in  confidential  conversation  in  the 
Dean's  oak  breakfast  parlour  they  could  look  across  the  lawn  and  see 
Captain  Costigan's  window,  at  which  poor  Pen  had  been  only  too 
visible  some  three  weeks  since.  The  Doctor  was  most  indignant 
against  Mrs.  Creed,  the  landlady,  for  her  duplicity,  in  concealing  Sir 
Derby  Oaks's  constant  visits  to  her  lodgers,  and  threatened  to  excom- 
municate her  out  of  the  Cathedral.  But  the  wary  Major  thought  that 
all  things  were  for  the  best ;  and,  having  taken  counsel  with  himself 
overnight,  felt  himself  quite  strong  enough  to  go  and  face  Captain 
Costigan. 

"  I'm  going  to  fight  the  dragon,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  to  Doctor 
Portman. 

"  And  I  shrive  you,  sir,  and  bid  good  fortune  go  with  you,"  answered 
the  Doctor.  Perhaps  he  and  Mrs.  Portman  and  Miss  Mira,  as  they 
sate  with  their  friend,  the  Dean's  lady,  in  her  drawing-room,  looked 
up  more  than  once  at  the  enemy's  window  to  see  if  they  could  perceive 
any  signs  of  the  combat. 

The  Major  walked  round,  according  to  the  directions  given  him, 
and  soon  found  Mrs.  Creed's  little  door.  He  passed  it,  and  as  he 
ascended  to  Captain  Costigan's  apartment,  he  could  hear  a  stamping 
of  feet,  and  a  great  shouting  of  "  Ha,  ha ! "  within. 


96  PENDENNIS. 

"  It's  Sir  Derby  Oaks  taking  his  fencing  lesson,"  said  the  child, 
who  piloted  Major  Pendennis.  "  He  takes  it  Mondays,  Wednesdays, 
and  Fridays." 

The  Major  knocked,  and  at  length  a  tall  gentleman  came  forth, 
with  a  foil  and  mask  in  one  hand,  and  a  fencing  glove  on  the  other. 

Pendennis  made  him  a  deferential  bow.  "  I  believe  I  have  the 
honour  of  speaking  to  Captain  Costigan  —  My  name  is  Major 
Pendennis." 

The  Captain  brought  his  weapon  up  to  the  salute,  and  said, 
"Major,  the  honer  is  moine;  I'm  deloighted  to  see  ye." 


PENDENNIS.  97 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NEGOTIATION. 

THE  Major  and  Captain  Costigan  were  old  soldiers  and  accustomed 
to  face  the  enemy,  so  we  may  presume  that  they  retained  their 
presence  of  mind  perfectly:  but  the  rest  of  the  party  assembled  in 
Cos's  sitting-room  were,  perhaps,  a  little  flurried  at  Pendennis's  appa- 
rition. Miss  Fotheringay's  slow  heart  began  to  beat  no  doubt,  for  her 
cheek  flushed  up  with  a  great  healthy  blush,  as  Lieutenant  Sir  Derby 
Oaks  looked  at  her  with  a  scowl.  The  little  crooked  old  man  in  the 
window-seat,  who  had  been  witnessing  the  fencing-match  between  the 
two  gentlemen  (whose  stamping  and  jumping  had  been  such  as  to 
cause  him  to  give  up  all  attempts  to  continue  writing  the  theatre  music, 
in  the  copying  of  which  he  had  been  engaged)  looked  up  eagerly 
towards  the  new  comer  as  the  Major  of  the  well-blacked  boots  entered 
the  apartment,  distributing  the  most  graceful  bows  to  everybody 
present. 

"  Me  daughter^me  friend,  Mr.  Bows— me  gallant  young  pupil  and 
friend,  I  may  call  'um.  Sir  Derby  Oaks,"  said  Costigan,  splendidly 
waving  his  hand,  and  pointing  each  of  these  individuals  to  the  Major's 
attention.  "  In  one  moment,  Meejor,  I'm  your  humble  servant,"  and 
to  dash  into  the  little  adjoining  chamber  where  he  slept,  to  give  a 
twist  to  his  lank  hair  with  his  hair-brush  (a  wonderful  and  ancient 
piece),  to  tear  off  his  old  stock  and  put  on  a  new  one  which  Emily 
had  constructed  for  him,  and  to  assume  a  handsome  clean  collar,  and 
the  new  coat  which  had  been  ordered  upon  the  occasion  of  Miss 
Fotheringay's  benefit,  was  with  the  still  active  Costigan  the  work  of  a 
minute. 

After  him  Sir  Derby  entered,  and  presently  emerged  from  the  same 
apartment,  where  he  also  cased  himself  in  his  little  shell-jacket, 
which  fitted  tightly  upon  the  young  officer's  big  person ;  and  which 
he  and  Miss  Fotheringay,  and  poor  Pen  too,  perhaps,  admired  pro- 
digiously. 

Meanwhile  conversation  was  engaged  in  between  the  actress  and 
the  new  comer ;  and  the  usual  remarks  about  the  weather  had  been 
interchanged  before  Costigan  re-entered  in  his  new  "  shoot,"  as  he 
called  it, 

7 


98  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  needn't  apologoise  to  ye,  Meejor,"'  he  said,  in  his  richest  and  most 
courteous  manner,  "  for  receiving  ye  in  me  shirt-sleeves." 

"  An  old  soldier  can't  be  better  employed  than  in  teaching  a  young 
one  the  use  of  his  sword,"  answered  the  Major,  gallantly.  "  I  remem- 
ber in  old  times  hearing  that  you  could  use  yours  pretty  well,  Captain 
Costigan." 

"What,  ye've  heard  of  Jack  Costigan,  Major,"  said  the  ether, 
greatly. 

The  Major  had,  indeed;  he  had  pumped  his  nephew  concernmg 
his  new  friend,  the  Irish  officer;  and  said  that  he  perfectly  well  recol- 
lected meeting  Mr.  Costigan,  and  hearing  him  sing  at  Sir  Richard 
Strachan's  table  at  Walcheren. 

At  this  information,  and  the  bland  and  cordial  manner  in  which  it 
was  conveyed,  Bows  looked  up,  entirely  puzzled.  "  But  we  will  talk  of 
these  matters  another  time,"  the  Major  continued,  perhaps  not  wishing 
to  commit  himself;  "  it  is  to  Miss  Fotheringay  that  I  came  to  pay  my 
respects  to-day :"  and  he  performed  another  bow  for  her,  so  courtly 
and  gracious,  that  if  she  had  been  a  duchess  he  could  not  have  made 
it  more  handsome. 

"  I  had  heard  of  your  performances  from  my  nephew,  madam,'" 
the  Major  said,  "  who  raves  about  you,  as  I  believe  you  know  pretty 
well.  But  Arthur  is  but  a  boy,  and  a  wild  enthusiastic  young  fellow, 
whose  opinions  one  must  not  take  an  pied  de  la  lettrej  and  I  confess 
I  was  anxious  to  judge  for  myself.  Permit  me  to  say  your  perfonnance 
delighted  and  astonished  me.  I  have  seen  our  best  actresses,  and, 
on  my  word,  I  think  you  surpass  them  all.  You  are  as  majestic  as 
Mrs.  Siddons." 

"  Faith,  I  always  said  so,"  Costigan  said,  winking  at  his  daughter  : 
"  Major,  take  a  chair."  Milly  rose  at  this  hint,  took  an  unripped  satin 
garment  off  the  only  vacant  seat,  and  brought  the  latter  to  Major  Pen- 
dennis  with  one  of  her  finest  curtseys. 

"  You  are  as  pathetic  as  Miss  O'Neill,"  he  continued,  bowing  and 
seating  himself;  "your  snatches  of  song  remind  me  of  Mrs.  Jordan  in 
her  best  time,  when  we  were  young  men,  Captain  Costigan ;  and  your 
manner  reminded  me  of  Mars.  Did  you  ever  see  the  Mars,  Miss 
Fotheringay  ? " 

"  There  was  two  Mahers  in  Crow  Street,"  remarked  Miss  Emily ; 
"  Fanny  was  well  enough,  but  Biddy  was  no  great  things." 

"  Sure,  the  Major  means  the  god  of  war,  Milly,  my  dear,"  inter- 
posed the  parent. 

"  It  is  not  that  IMars  I  meant,  though  Venus,  I  suppose,  may  be 
pardoned  for  thinking  about  him ; "  the  Major  replied  with  a  smile 
directed  in  full  to  Sir  Derby  Oaks,  who  now  re-entered  in  his  shell- 
jacket,  but  the  lady  did  not  understand  the  words  of  which  he  made 


PENDENNIS.  99 

use,  nor  did  the  compliment  at  all  pacify  Sir  Derby,  who,  probably, 
did  not  understand  it  either,  and  at  any  rate  received  it  with  great 
sulkiness  and  stiffness ;  scowling  uneasily  at  Miss  Fotheringay,  with 
an  expression  which  seemed  to  ask  what  the  deuce  does  this  man 
here  ? 

Major  Pendennis  was  not  in  the  least  annoyed  by  the  gentleman's 
ill-humour.  On  the  contrary,  it  delighted  him.  "  So,"  thought  he,  "  a 
rival  is  in  the  field ; "  and  he  offered  up  vows  that  Sir  Derby  might  be, 
not  only  a  rival,  but  a  winner  too,  in  this  love-match  in  which  he  and 
Pen  were  engaged. 

"  I  fear  I  interrupted  your  fencing  lesson  ;  but  my  stay  in  Chatteris 
is  very  short,  and  I  was  anxious  to  make  myself  known  to  my  old 
fellow-campaigner  Captain  Costigan,  and  to  see  a  lady  nearer  who  had 
charmed  me  so  much  from  the  stage.  I  was  not  the  only  man  epris 
last  night.  Miss  Fotheringay  (if  I  must  call  you  so,  though  your  own 
family  name  is  a  very  ancient  and  noble  one).  There  was  a  reverend 
friend  of  mine,  who  went  home  in  raptures  with  Ophelia ;  and  I  saw 
Sir  Derby  Oaks  fling  a  bouquet  which  no  actress  ever  merited  better. 
I  should  have  brought  one  myself,  had  I  known  what  I  was  going  to 
see.  Are  not  those  the  very  flowers  in  a  glass  of  water  on  the  mantel- 
piece yonder  ? " 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  flowers,"  said  Miss  Fotheringay,  with  a 
languishing  ogle  at  Sir  Derby  Oaks — but  the  Baronet  still  scowled 
sulkily. 

"Sweets  to  the  sweet — isn't  that  the  expression  of  the  play?" 
Major  Pendennis  asked,  bent  upon  being  good-humoured. 

"  'Pon  my  life,  I  don't  know.  Very  likely  it  is.  I  ain't  much  of  a 
literary  man,"  answered  Sir  Derby. 

"Is  it  possible?"  the  Major  continued,  with  an  air  of  surprise. 
"  You  don't  inherit  your  father's  love  of  letters,  then.  Sir  Derby  ?  He 
was  a  remarkably  fine  scholar,  and  I  had  the  honour  of  knowing  him 
very  well." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  other,  and  gave  a  sulky  wag  of  his  head. 

"  He  saved  my  life,"  continued  Pendennis. 

"  Did  he  now  ?"  cried  Miss  Fotheringay,  rolling  her  eyes  first  upon 
the  Major  with  surprise,  then  towards  Sir  Derby  with  gratitude — but 
the  latter  was  proof  against  those  glances ;  and  far  from  appearing  to 
be  pleased  that  the  Apothecary,  his  father,  should  have  saved  Major 
Pendennis's  life,  the  young  man  actually  looked  as  if  he  wished  the 
event  had  turned  the  other  way. 

"  My  father,  I  believe,  was  a  very  good  doctor,"  the  young  gentle- 

^man  said  by  way  of  reply.     "  I'm  not  in  that  line  myself.     I  wish  you 

good  morning,  sir.      I've  got  an  appointment — Cos,  bye-bye — Miss 

Fotheringay,   good  morning."      And,   in  spite    of  the   young  lady's 


lOO  PENDENNIS. 

imploring  looks  and  appealing  smiles,  the  Dragoon  bowed  stiffly  out 
of  the  room,  and  the  clatter  of  his  sabre  was  heard  as  he  strode  down 
the  creaking  stair ;  and  the  angry  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  cursed  little 
Tom  Creed,  who  was  disporting  in  the  passage,  and  whose  peg-top  Sir 
Derby  kicked  away  with  an  oath  into  the  street. 

The  Major  did  not  smile  in  the  least,  though  he  had  every  reason 
to  be  amused.  "  Monstrous  handsome  young  man  that — as  fine  a 
looking  soldier  as  ever  I  saw,"  he  said  to  Costigan. 

"  A  credit  to  the  army  and  to  human  nature  in  general,"  answered 
Costigan.  "A  young  man  of  refoined  manners,  polite  affabilitee, 
and  princely  fortune.  His  table  is  sumptuous :  he's  adawr'd  in  the 
regiment :  and  he  rides  sixteen  stone." 

"  A  perfect  champion,"  said  the  Major,  laughing.  "  I  have  no 
doubt  all  the  ladies  admire  him." 

"  He's  very  well,  in  spite  of  his  weight,  now  he's  young,"  said 
Milly;  "but  he's  no  conversation." 

"  He's  best  on  horseback,"  Mr.  Uows  said;  on  which  Milly  replied, 
that  the  Baronet  had  ridden  third  in  the  steeple-chase  on  his  horse 
Tareaways,  and  the  Major  began  to  comprehend  that  the  young  lady 
herself  was  not  of  a  particular  genius,  and  to  wonder  how  she  should 
be  so  stupid  and  act  so  well. 

Costigan,  with  Irish  hospitality,  of  course  pressed  refreshment 
upon  his  guest :  and  the  Major,  who  was  no  more  hungry  than  you 
are  after  a  Lord  Mayors  dinner,  declared  that  he  should  like  a  biscuit 
and  a  glass  of  wine  above  all  things,  as  he  felt  quite  faint  from  long 
fasting — but  he  knew  that  to  receive  small  kindnesses  flatters  the 
donors  very  much,  and  that  people  must  needs  grow  well  disposed 
towards  you  as  they  give  you  their  hospitality, 

"  Some  of  the  old  Madara,  Milly,  love,"  Costigan  said,  winking  to 
his  child — and  that  lady,  turning  to  her  father  a  glance  of  intelligence, 
went  out  of  the  room,  and  down  the  stair,  where  she  softly  summoned 
her  little  emissary  Master  Tommy  Creed :  and  giving  him  a  piece  of 
money,  ordered  him  to  go  buy  a  pint  of  Madara  wine  at  the  Grapes, 
and  sixpennyworth  of  sorted  biscuits  at  the  baker's,  and  to  return  in  a 
hurry,  when  he  might  have  two  biscuits  for  himself. 

Whilst  Tommy  Creed  was  gone  on  this  errand,  Miss  Costigan  sate 
below  with  Mrs.  Creed,  telling  her  landlady  how  Mr.  Arthur  Penden- 
nis's  uncle,  the  Major,  was  above  stairs ;  a  nice,  soft-spoken  old 
gentleman ;  that  butter  wouldn't  melt  in  his  mouth  :  and  how  Sir 
Derby  had  gone  out  of  the  room  in  a  rage  of  jealousy,  and  thinking 
what  must  be  done  to  pacify  both  of  them. 

"  She  keeps  the  keys  of  the  cellar.  Major,"  said  Mr.  Costigan,  as 
the  girl  left  the  room. 

"  Upon  my  word  you  have  a  verj-  beautiful  butler,"  answered  Pen* 


J 


PENDENNIS.  101 

fdennis,  gallantly,  "  and  I  don't  wonder  at  the  young  fellows  raving 
about  her.  When  we  were  of  their  age,  Captain  Costigan,  I  think 
plainer  women  would  have  done  our  business." 

"  Faith,  and  ye  may  say  that,  sir — and  lucky  is  the  man  who  gets 
jher.  Ask  me  friend  Bob  Bows  here  whether  Miss  Fotheringay's 
moind  is  not  even  shuparior  to  her  person,  and  whether  she  does  not 
possess  a  cultiveated  intellect,  a  refoined  understanding,  and  an 
emiable  disposition  ?  " 

"  O,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Bows,  rather  drily.  "  Here  comes  Hebe 
blushing  from  the  cellar.  Don't  you  think  it  is  time  to  go  to  rehearsal, 
Miss  Hebe?  You  will  be  fined  if  you  are  late" — and  he  gave  the 
young  lady  a  look,  which  intimated  that  they  had  much  better  leave 
the  room  and  the  two  elders  together. 

At  this  order  Miss  Hebe  took  up  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  looking 
uncommonly  pretty,  good-humoured,  and  smiling:  and  Bows  gathered 
up  his  roll  of  papers,  and  hobbled  across  the  room  for  his  hat  and 
cane. 

"Must  you  go?"  said  the  Major.  "Can't  you  give  us  a  few 
minutes  more.  Miss  Fotheringay  ?  Before  you  leave  us,  permit  an 
old  fellow  to  shake  you  by  the  hand,  and  believe  that  I  am  proud  to 
have  had  the  honour  of  making  your  acquaintance,  and  am  most 
sincerely  anxious  to  be  your  friend." 

Miss  Fotheringay  made  a  low  curtsey  at  the  conclusion  of  this 
gallant  speech,  and  the  Major  followed  her  retreating  steps  to  the 
door,  where  he  squeezed  her  hand  with  the  kindest  and  most  paternal 
pressure.  Bows  was  puzzled  with  this  exhibition  of  cordiality  :  "  The 
lad's  relatives  can't  be  really  wanting  to  marry  him  to  her,"  he  thought 
— and  so  they  departed. 

"  Now  for  it,"  thought  Major  Pendennis ;  and  as  for  Mr.  Costigan 
he  profited  instantaneously  by  his  daughter's  absence  to  drink  up  the 
rest  of  the  wine ;  and  tossed  off  one  bumper  after  another  of  the 
Madeira  from  the  Grapes,  with  an  eager  shaking  hand.  The  Major 
came  up  to  the  table,  and  took  up  his  glass  and  drained  it  with  a 
jovial  smack.  If  it  had  been  Lord  Steyne's  particular,  and  not  public- 
house  Cape,  he  could  not  have  appeared  to  relish  it  more. 

'  Capital  Madeira,  Captain  Costigan,"  he  said.  "  Where  do  you 
get  it  ?  I  drink  the  health  of  that  charming  creature  in  a  bumper. 
Faith,  Captain,  I  don't  wonder  that  the  men  are  wild  about  her.  I 
never  saw  such  eyes  in  my  life,  or  such  a  grand  manner.  1  am  sure 
she  is  as  intellectual  as  she  is  beautiful ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  she  is  as 
good  as  she  is  clever." 

"  A  good  girl,  sir, — a  good  girl,  sir,"  said  the  delighted  father ; 
"  and  I  pledge  a  toast  to  her  with  all  my  heart.  Shall  I  send  to  the — 
to  the  cellar  for  another  pint  ?     It's  handy  by.    No?    Well,  indeed,  sir, 


I02  PEXDEXA'IS. 

ye  may  say  she  is  a  good  girl,  and  the  pride  and  glor>-  of  her  father — 
honest  old  Jack  Costigan.  The  man  who  gets  her  will  have  a  jew'l 
to  a  wife,  sir ;  and  I  drink  his  health,  sir,  and  ye  know  who  I  mean, 
Major." 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  young  or  old  falling  in  love  with  her,"  said 
the  Major,  "  and  frankly  must  tell  you,  that  though  I  was  very  angry- 
with  my  poor  nephew  Arthur,  when  I  heard  of  the  boy's  passion — now 
I  have  seen  the  lady  I  can  pardon  him  any  extent  of  it.  By  George,  I 
should  like  to  enter  for  the  race  myself,  if  I  weren't  an  old  fellow  and 
a  poor  one." 

"And  no  better  man.  Major,  I'm  sure,"  cried  Jack  enraptured. 
"Your  friendship,  sir,  delights  me.  Your  admiration  for  my  girl 
brings  tears  to  me  eyes — tears,  sir — manlee  tears— and  when  she 
leaves  me  humble  home  for  your  own  more  splendid  mansion,  I  hope 
she'll  keep  a  place  for  her  poor  old  father,  poor  old  Jack  Costigan." — • 
The  Captain  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  and  his  blood-shot  eyes 
were  suffused  with  water,  as  he  addressed  the  Major. 

"  Your  sentiments  do  you  honour,"  the  other  said.  "  But,  Captain 
Costigan,  I  can't  help  smiling  at  one  thing  you  have  just  said." 

-  "  And  what's  that,  sir  ?"  asked  Jack,  who  was  at  a  too  heroic  and 
sentimental  pitch  to  descend  from  it. 

"  You  were  speaking  about  our  splendid  mansion — my  sister's 
house,  I  mean." 

"I  mane  the  park  and  mansion  of  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esquire,  of 
Fairoaks  Park,  whom  I  hope  to  see  a  Mimber  of  Parliament  for  his 
native  town  of  Clavering,  when  he  is  of  ege  to  take  that  responsible 
st.etion,"  cried  the  Captain  with  much  dignity. 

The  Major  smiled.  "  Fairoaks  Park,  my  dear  sir! "  he  said.  "  Do 
you  know  our  history  ?  We  are  of  excessively  ancient  family  certainly, 
but  I  began  life  with  scarce  enough  money  to  purchase  my  commission, 
and  my  eldest  brother  was  a  country  apothecary:  who  made  every 
shilling  he  died  possessed  of  out  of  his  pestle  and  mortar." 

"  I  have  consented  to  waive  that  objection,  sir,"  said  Costigan  majes- 
tically, "  in  consideration  of  the  known  respectability  of  your  family." 

"  Curse  your  impudence,"  thought  the  Major ;  but  he  only  smiled 
and  bowed. 

"  The  Costigans,  too,  have  met  with  misfortunes ;  and  our  house  of 
Castle  Costigan  is  by  no  manes  what  it  was.  I  have  known  very  honest 
men  apothecaries,  sir,  and  there's  some  in  Dublin  that  has  had  the 
honour  of  dining  at  the  Lord  Leftenant's  teeble." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  give  us  the  benefit  of  your  charity,"  the 
^Tajor  continued :  "  but  permit  me  to  say  that  is  not  the  question. 
You  spoke  just  now  of  my  little  nephew  as  heir  of  Fairoaks  Park,  and 
I  don't  know  what  besides." 


PENDENNIS.  103 

"  Funded  property,  I've  no  doubt,  Meejor,  and  something  hand- 
some eventually  from  yourself." 

"  My  good  sir,  I  tell  you  the  boy  is  the  son  of  a  country  apothe- 
cary," cried  out  Major  Pendennis,  "  and  that  when  he  comes  of  age  he 
won't  have  a  shilling." 

"  Pooh,  Major,  you're  laughing  at  me,"  said  Mr.  Costigan,  "  me 
young  friend,  I  make  no  doubt,  is  heir  to  two  thousand  pounds 
a-year." 

'  Two  thousand  fiddlesticks  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  sir;  but 
has  the  boy  been  humbugging  you  ? — it  is  not  his  habit.  Upon  my 
word  and  honour,  as  a  gentleman  and  an  executor  to  my  brother's  will 
too,  he  left  little  more  than  five  hundred  a  year  behind  him." 

"And  with  aconomy,  a  handsome  sum  of  money  too,  sir,"  the 
Captain  answered.  "  Faith,  I've  known  a  man  drink  his  clar't,  and 
drive  his  coach-and-four  on  five  hundred  a-year  and  strict  aconomy,  in 
Ireland,  sir.     We'll  manage  on  it,  sir — trust  Jack  Costigan  for  that." 

"  My  dear  Captain  Costigan — I  give  you  my  word  that  my  brother 
did  not  leave  a  shilling  to  his  son  Arthur." 

"  Are  ye  joking  with  me,  Meejor  Pendennis  ?  "  cried  Jack  Costigan. 
"  Are  ye  thrifling  with  the  feelings  of  a  father  and  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  am  telling  you  the  honest  truth,"  said  Major  Pendennis. 
"  Every  shilling  my  brother  had,  he  left  to  his  widow :  with  a  partial 
reversion,  it  is  true,  to  the  boy.  But  she  is  a  young  woman,  and  may 
marry  if  he  offends  her — or  she  may  outlive  him,  for  she  comes  of  an 
uncommonly  long-lived  family.  And  I  ask  you,  as  a  gentleman  and  a 
man  of  the  world,  what  allowance  can  my  sister,  Mrs.  Pendennis, 
make  to  her  son  out  of  five  hundred  a-year,  which  is  all  her  fortune — 
that  shall  enable  him  to  maintain  himself  and  your  daughter  in  the 
rank  befitting  such  an  accomplished  young  lady  ?  " 

"  Am  I  to  understand,  sir,  that  the  young  gentleman,  your  nephew, 
and  whom  I  have  fosthered  and  cherished  as  the  son  of  me  bosom,  is 
an  imposther  who  has  been  thrifling  with  the  affections  of  me  beloved 
child  ?"  exclaimed  the  General,  with  an  outbreak  of  wrath.  "  Have  a 
care,  sir,  how  you  thrifle  with  the  honour  of  John  Costigan.  If  I 
thought  any  mortal  man  meant  to  do  so,  be  heavens  I'd  have  his 
blood,  sir — were  he  old  or  young." 

"  Mr.  Costigan ! "  cried  out  the  Major. 

"  Mr.  Costigan  can  protect  his  own  and  his  daughter's  honour,  and 
will,  sir,"  said  the  other.  "  Look  at  that  chest  of  dthrawers,  it  contains 
heaps  of  letthers  that  that  viper  has  addressed  to  that  innocent  child. 
There's  promises  there,  sir,  enough  to  fill  a  band-box  with ;  and  when 
I  have  dragged  the  scoundthrel  before  the  Courts  of  Law,  and  shown 
up  his  perjury  and  his  dishonour,  I  have  another  remedy  in  yondther 
mahogany  case,  sir,  which  shall  set  me  right,  sir,  with  any  individual 


I04  PENDENNIS. 

— ye  mark  me  words,  Major  Pendennis — with  any  individual  who  has 
counselled  your  nephew  to  insult  a  soldier  and  a  gentleman.  What  ? 
Me  daughter  to  be  jilted,  and  me  gray  hairs  dishonoured  by  an 
apothecar)''s  son  !  By  the  laws  of  Keaven,  sir,  I  should  like  to  see  the 
man  that  shall  do  it." 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  threaten  in  the  firs^  place  to 
publish  the  letters  of  a  boy  of  eighteen  to  a  woman  of  eight-and- 
twenty  :  and  afterwards  to  do  me  the  honour  of  calling  me  out,'"  the 
Major  said,  still  with  perfect  coolness. 

"  You  have  described  my  intentions  with  perfect  accuracy,  Meejor 
Pendennis,"  answered  the  Captain,  as  he  pulled  his  ragged  whiskers 
over  his  chin. 

"Well,  well;  these  shall  be  the  subjects  of  future  arrangements, 
but  before  we  come  to  powder  and  ball,  my  good  sir, — do  have  the 
kindness  to  think  with  yourself  in  what  eartiily  way  I  have  injured 
you  ?  I  have  told  you  that  my  nephew  is  dependent  upon  his  mother, 
who  has  scarcely  more  than  five  hundred  a-year." 

"  I  have  my  own  opinion  of  the  correctness  of  that  assertion,"  said 
the  Captain. 

"  Will  you  go  to  my  sister's  lawyers,  Messrs.  Tatham  here,  and 
satisfy  yourself.'"' 

"  I  decline  to  meet  those  gentlemen,"  said  the  Captain,  with  rather 
a  disturbed  air.  "  If  it  be  as  you  say,  I  have  been  athrociously  deceived 
by  some  one,  and  on  that  person  I'll  be  revenged." 

"Is  it  my  nephew  ?"  cried  the  Major,  starting  up  and  putting  on  his 
hat.  "  Did  he  ever  tell  you  that  his  property  was  two  thousand  a-year? 
If  he  did,  I'm  mistaken  in  the  boy.  To  tell  lies  has  not  been  a  habit 
in  our  family,  Mr.  Costigan,  and  I  don't  think  my  brother's  son  has 
learned  it  as  yet.  Trj^  and  consider  whether  you  have  not  deceived 
yourself;  or  adopted  extravagant  reports  from  hearsay.  As  for  me, 
sir,  you  are  at  liberty  to  understand  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  all  the 
Costigans  in  Ireland,  and  know  quite  well  how  to  defend  myself  against 
any  threats  from  any  quarter.  I  come  here  as  the  boy's  guardian  to 
protest  against  a  marriage,  most  absurd  and  unequal,  that  cannot  but 
bring  poverty  and  misery  with  it :  and  in  preventing  it  I  conceive  I 
am  quite  as  much  your  daughter's  friend  (who  I  have  no  doubt  is  an 
honourable  young  lady),  as  the  friend  of  my  own  family:  and  prevent 
the  marriage  I  will,  sir,  by  every  means  in  my  power.  There,  I  have 
said  my  say,  sir." 

"  But  I  have  not  said  mine.  Major  Pendennis — and  ye  shall  hear 
more  from  me,"  Mr.  Costigan  said,  with  a  look  of  tremendous  severity. 

'•'Sdeath,  sir,  what  do  you  mean.^"  the  Major  asked,  turning 
round  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  looking  the  intrepid  Costigan 
in  the  face. 


PENDENNIS.  105 

"  Ye  said,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  ye  were  at  the  George 
Hotel,  I  think,"  Mr.  Costigan  said  in  a  stately  manner.  "  A  friend 
shall  wait  upon  ye  there  before  ye  leave  town,  sir." 

"  Let  him  make  haste,  Mr.  Costigan,"  cried  out  the  Major,  almost 
beside  himself  with  rage.  "  I  wish  you  a  good  morning,  sir."  And 
Captain  Costigan  bowed  a  magnificent  bow  of  defiance  to  Major 
Pendennis  over  the  landing-place  as  the  latter  retreated  down  the 
stairs. 


ro6  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

IN  WHICH   A  SHOOTING  MATCH   IS   PROPOSED. 

EARLY  mention  has  been  made  in  this  history  of  Mr.  Garbetts, 
Principal  Tragedian,  a  promising  and  athletic  young  actor,  of 
jovial  habits  and  irregular  inclinations,  between  whom  and  Mr. 
Costigan  there  was  a  considerable  intimacy.  They  were  the  chief 
ornaments  of  the  convivial  club  held  at  the  Magpie  Hotel ;  they 
helped  each  other  in  various  bill  transactions  in  which  they  had  been 
engaged,  with  the  mutual  loan  of  each  other's  valuable  signatures. 
They  were  friends,  in  fine ;  and  Mr.  Garbetts  was  called  in  by  Captain 
Costigan  immediately  after  Major  Pendennis  had  quitted  the  house, 
as  a  friend  proper  to  be  consulted  at  the  actual  juncture.  He  was  a 
large  man,  with  a  loud  voice  and  fierce  aspect,  who  had  the  finest  • 
legs  of  the  whole  company,  and  could  break  a  poker  in  mere  sport 
across  his  stalwart  arm. 

"  Run,  Tommy,"  said  Mr.  Costigan  to  the  little  messenger,  "  and 
fetch  Mr.  Garbetts  from  his  lodgings  over  the  tripe-shop,  ye  know,  and 
tell  'em  to  send  two  glasses  of  whisky-and-water,  hot,  from  the  Grapes." 
So  Tommy  went  his  way ;  and  presently  Mr.  Garbetts  and  the  whisky 
came. 

Captain  Costigan  did  not  disclose  to  him  the  whole  of  the  previous 
events,  of  which  the  reader  is  in  possession ;  but,  with  the  aid  of  the 
spirits  and  water,  he  composed  a  letter  of  a  threatening  nature  to  Major 
Pendennis's  address,  in  which  he  called  upon  that  gentleman  to  offer 
no  hindrance  to  the  marriage  projected  between  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis 
and  his  daughter.  Miss  Fotheringay,  and  to  fix  an  early  day  for  its 
celebration :  or,  in  any  other  case,  to  give  him  the  satisfaction  which 
was  usual  between  gentlemen  of  honour.  And  should  Major  Pendennis 
be  disinclined  to  this  alternative,  the  Captain  hinted,  that  he  would 
force  him  to  accept  it  by  the  use  of  a  horsewhip,  which  he  should 
employ  upon  the  Major's  person.  The  precise  terms  of  this  letter  we 
cannot  give,  for  reasons  which  shall  be  specified  presently ;  but  it  was, 
no  doubt,  couched  in  the  Captain's  finest  style,  and  sealed  elaborately 
with  the  great  silver  seal  of  the  Costigans — the  only  bit  of  the  family 
plate  which  the  Captain  possessed. 

Garbetts  was  despatched,  then,  with  this  message  and  letter;  and 


PENDENNIS.  io7 

bidding  Heaven  bless  'um,  the  General  squeezed  his  ambassador's 
hand,  and  saw  him  depart.  Then  he  took  down  his  venerable  and 
murderous  duelling-pistols,  with  flint  locks,  that  had  done  the  business 
of  many  a  pretty  fellow  in  Dublin :  and  having  examined  these,  and 
seen  that  they  were  in  a  satisfactory  condition,  he  brought  from  the 
drawer  all  Pen's  letters  and  poems  which  he  kept  there,  and  which  he 
always  read  before  he  permitted  his  Emily  to  enjoy  their  perusal. 

In  a  score  of  minutes  Garbetts  came  back  with  an  anxious  and 
crest-fallen  countenance. 

"  Ye  've  seen  'um  ? "  the  Captain  said. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  Garbetts. 

"  And  when  is  it  for  ?"  asked  Costigan,  trying  the  lock  of  one  of  the 
ancient  pistols,  and  bringing  it  to  a  level  with  his  oi — as  he  called  that 
blood-shot  orb. 

"  When  is  what  for  ? "  asked  Mr.  Garbetts. 

"  The  meeting,  my  dear  fellow  ? " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  mean  mortal  combat,  Captain  ? " 
Garbetts  said,  aghast. 

"  What  the  devil  else  do  I  mean,  Garbetts  ? — I  want  to  shoot 
that  man  that  has  trajuiced  me  honor,  or  meself  dthrop  a  victim  on 
the  sod." 

"  D —  if  I  carry  challenges,"  Mr.  Garbetts  replied.  "  I'm  a  family 
man.  Captain,  and  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  pistols — take  back  your 
letter ;  "  and,  to  the  surprise  and  indignation  of  Captain  Costigan,  his 
emissary  flung  the  lettfer  down,  with  its  great  sprawling  superscription 
and  blotched  seal. 

"  Ye  don't  mean  to  say  ye  saw  'um  and  didn't  give  'um  the  letter?" 
cried  out  the  Captain,  in  a  fury. 

"  I  saw  him,  but  I  could  not  have  speech  with  him,  Captain,"  said 
Mr.  Garbetts. 

"  And  why  the  devil  not  ?"  asked  the  other. 

"  There  was  one  there  I  cared  not  to  meet,  nor  would  you,"  the 
tragedian  answered  in  a  sepulchral  voice.  "  The  minion  Tatham  was 
there,  Captain." 

"  The  cowardly  scoundthrel ! "  roared  Costigan.  "  He's  frightened, 
and  already  going  to  swear  the  peace  against  me." 

"  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  fighting,  mark  that,"  the  tragedian 
doggedly  said,  "  and  I  wish  I'd  not  seen  Tatham  neither,  nor  that  bit 
of " 

"  Hold  your  tongue !  Bob  Acres.  It's  my  belief  ye're  no  better 
than  a  coward,"  said  Captain  Costigan,  quoting  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger, 
which  character  he  had  performed  with  credit,  both  off  and  on  the 
stage,  and  after  some  more  parley  between  the  couple  they  separated 
in  not  very  good  humour. 


io8  PENDENNIS. 

Their  colloquy  has  been  here  condensed,  as  the  reader  knows  the 
main  point  upon  which  it  turned.  But  the  latter  will  now  see  how  it 
is  impossible  to  give  a  correct  account  of  the  letter  which  the  Captain 
wrote  to  Major  Pendennis,  as  it  was  never  opened  at  all  by  that 
gentleman. 

When  Miss  Costigan  came  home  from  rehearsal,  which  she  did  in 
the  company  of  the  faithful  Mr.  Bows,  she  found  her  father  pacing  up 
and  down  their  apartment  in  a  great  state  of  agitation,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  powerful  odour  of  spirits  and  water,  which,  as  it  appeared, 
had  not  succeeded  in  pacifying  his  disordered  mind.  The  Pendennis 
papers  were  on  the  table  surrounding  the  empty  goblets  and  now 
useless  teaspoon,  which  had  served  to  hold  and  mix  the  Captain's 
liquor  and  his  friend's.  As  Emily  entered  he  seized  her  in  his  arms, 
and  cried  out,  "  Prepare  yourself,  me  child,  me  blessed  child,"  in  a 
voice  of  agony,  and  with  eyes  brimful  of  tears. 

"  Ye're  tipsy  again,  papa,"  Miss  Fotheringay  said,  pushing  back  licr 
sire.     "Ye  promised  me  ye  wouldn't  take  spirits  before  dinner." 

"It's  to  forget  me  sorrows,  me  poor  girl,  that  I've  taken  just  a 
drop,"  cried  the  bereaved  father — "it's  to  drown  me  care  that  1  drain 
the  bowl." 

"  Your  care  takes  a  deal  of  drowning,  Captain  dear,'"  said  Bows, 
mimicking  his  friend's  accent;  "what  has  happened.  Has  that  sofi- 
spoken  gentleman  in  the  wig  been  vexing  you  ? " 

"The  oily  miscreant!  I'll  have  his  blood!"  roared  Cos.  Miss 
Milly,  it  must  be  premised,  had  fled  to  her  room  out  of  his  embrace, 
and  was  taking  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl  there. 

"  I  thought  he  meant  mischief.  He  was  so  uncommon  civil,"  the 
other  said.     "  What  has  he  come  to  say  ?" 

"  O  Bows  !  He  has  overwhellum'd  me,"  the  Captain  said.  "  There's 
a  hellish  conspiracy  on  foot  against  me  poor  girl ;  and  it's  me  opinion 
that  both  them  Pendennises,  nephew  and  uncle,  is  two  infernal  thrators 
and  scoundthrels,  who  should  be  conshumed  from  off  the  face  of  the 
earth." 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened.^"  said  Mr.  Bows,  growing 
rather  excited. 

Costigan  then  told  him  the  Major's  statement  that  the  young  Pen- 
dennis had  not  two  thousand,  nor  two  hundred  pounds  a-year ;  and 
expressed  his  fury  that  he  should  have  permitted  such  an  impostor  to 
coax  and  wheedle  his  innocent  girl,  and  that  he  should  have  nourished 
such  a  viper  in  his  own  personal  bosom.  "  I  have  shaken  the  reptile 
from  me,  however,"  said  Costigan ;  "  and  as  for  his  uncle,  I'll  have 
Kuch  a  revenge  on  that  old  man,  as  shall  make  'um  rue  the  day  he  ever 
insulted  a  Costigan." 

"What  do  you  mean.  General?"  said  Bows. 


PENDENNIS.  109 

"  I  mean  to  have  his  hfe,  Bows — his  villanous,  skulking  Hfe,  my 
boy  ;"  and  he  rapped  upon  the  battered  old  pistol-case  in  an  ominous 
and  savage  manner.  Bows  had  often  heard  him  appeal  to  that  box  of 
death,  with  which  he  proposed  to  sacrifice  his  enemies  ;  but  the  Captain 
did  not  tell  him  that  he  had  actually  written  and  sent  a  challenge  to 
Major  Pendennis,  and  Mr.  Bows  therefore  rather  disregarded  the 
pistols  in  the  present  instance. 

At  this  juncture  Miss  Fotheringay  returned  to  the  common  sitting- 
room  from  her  private  apartment,  looking  perfectly  healthy,  happy,  and 
unconcerned,  a  striking  and  wholesqme  contrast  to  her  father,  who  was 
in  a  dehrious  tremor  of  grief,  anger,  and  other  agitation.  She  brought 
in  a  pair  of  ex-white  satin  shoes  with  her,  which  she  proposed  to  rub 
as  clean  as  might  be  with  bread-crumb ;  intending  to  go  mad  with  them 
upon  next  Tuesday  evening  in  Ophelia,  in  which  character  she  was  to 
reappear  on  that  night. 

She  looked  at  the  papers  on  the  table ;  stopped  as  if  she  was  going 
to  ask  a  question,  but  thought  better  of  it,  and  going  to  the  cupboard, 
selected  an  eligible  piece  of  bread  wherewith  she  might  operate  on  the 
satin  slippers  :  and  afterwards  coming  back  to  the  table,  seated  herself 
there  commodiously  with  the  shoes,  and  then  asked  her  father,  in  her 
honest  Irish  brogue,  "What  have  ye  got  them  letthers,  and  pothry, 
and  stuff,  of  Master  Arthur";  out  for.  Pa?  Sure  ye  don't  want  to  be 
reading  over  that  nonsense." 

"  O  Emilee  !  "  cried  the  Captain,  "  that  boy  whom  I  loved  as  the 
boy  of  mee  bosom  is  only  a  scoundthrel,  and  a  deceiver,  mee  poor 
girl:"  and  he  looked  in  the  most  tragical  way  at  Mr.  Bows,  opposite  ; 
who,  in  his  turn,  gazed  somewhat  anxiously  at  Miss  Costigan. 

"  He  !  pooh  !  Sure  the  poor  lad's  as  simple  as  a  schoolboy,"  she 
said.     "All  them  children  write  verses  and  nonsense." 

"  He's  been  acting  the  part  of  a  viper  to  this  fireside,  and  a  traitor 
in  this  familee,"  cried  the  Captain.  "  I  tell  ye  he's  no  better  than  an 
impostor." 

"  What  has  the  poor  fellow  done.  Papa  ?"  asked  Emily. 

"  Done  ?  He  has  deceived  us  in  the  most  athrocious  manner," 
Miss  Emily's  papa  said.  "  He  has  thrifled  with  your  affections,  and 
outraged  my  own  fine  feelings.  He  has  represented  himself  as  a 
man  of  property,  and  it  turruns  out  that  he  is  no  betther  than  a  beggar. 
Haven't  I  often  told  ye  he  had  two  thousand  a-year  ?  He's  a  pauper, 
I  tell  ye.  Miss  Costigan  ;  a  depindent  upon  the  bountee  of  his  mother; 
a  good  woman,  who  may  marry  again,  who's  likely  to  live  for  ever, 
and  who  has  but  five  hundred  a-year.  How  dar  he  ask  ye  to  marry 
into  a  family  which  has  not  the  means  of  providing  for  ye .''  YeVe 
been  grossly  deceived  and  put  upon,  Milly,  and  it's  my  belief  his  old 
ruffian  of  an  uncle  in  a  wig  is  in  the  plot  against  us." 


no  PENDEA'NIS. 

•*  That  soft  old  gentleman?  What  has  he  been  doing,  Papa?" 
continued  Emily,  still  imperturbable. 

Costigan  informed  Milly  that  when  she  was  gone,  Major  Pendennis 
told  him  in  his  double-faced  Pall  Mall  polite  manner,  that  young 
Arthur  had  no  fortune  at  all,  that  the  Major  had  asked  him  (Costigan) 
to  go  to  the  lawyers  ("wherein  he  knew  the  scoundthrels  have  a 
bill  of  mine,  and  I  can't  meet  them,"  the  Captain  parenthetically 
remarked),  and  see  the  lad's  father's  will :  and  finally,  that  an  infernal 
swindle  had  been  practised  upon  him  by  the  pair,  and  that  he  was 
resolved  either  on  a  marriage,  or  on  the  blood  of  both  of  them. 

Milly  looked  very  grave  and  thoughtful,  rubbing  the  white  satin 
shoe.  "  Sure,  if  he's  no  money,  there's  no  use  marrj'ing  him,  Papa," 
she  said  sententiously. 

"  Why  did  the  villain  say  he  was  a  man  of  prawpertee  ? "  asked 
Costigan. 

"  The  poor  feUow  always  said  he  was  poor,"  answered  the  girl. 
"  'Twas  you  who  would  have  it  he  was  rich,  Papa — and  made  me  agree 
to  take  him." 

"  He  should  have  been  explicit  and  told  us  his  income,  Milly,'' 
answered  the  father.  "  A  young  fellow  who  rides  a  blood  mare,  and 
makes  presents  of  shawls  and  bracelets,  is  an  impostor  if  he  has  no 
money; — and  as  for  his  uncle,  bedad  I'll  pull  off  his  wig  whenever  1 
see  'um.  Bows,  here,  shall  take  a  message  to  him  and  tell  him  so. 
Either  it's  a  marriage,  or  he  meets  me  in  the  field  like  a  man,  or  I 
tweak  'um  on  the  nose  in  front  of  his  hotel,  or  in  the  gravel  walks  of 
Fairoaks  Park  before  aU  the  county,  bedad." 

"  Bedad,  you  may  send  somebody  else  with  the  message,"  said 
Bows,  laughing.     "  I'm  a  fiddler,  not  a  fighting  man.  Captain." 

"  Pooh,  you've  no  spirit,  sir,"  roared  the  General.  "  I'll  be  my 
own  second,  if  no  one  will  stand  by  and  see  me  injured.  And  I'll  take 
my  case  of  pistols  and  shoot  'um  in  the  Coffee  Room  of  the  George." 

"  And  so  poor  Arthur  has  no  money  ? "  sighed  out  Miss  Costigan. 
rather  plaintively.  "  Poor  lad,  he  was  a  good  lad  too :  wild  and 
talking  nonsense,  with  his  verses  and  pothry  and  that,  but  a  brave, 
generous  boy,  and  indeed  I  liked  him — and  he  liked  me  too,"  she 
added,  rather  softly,  and  rubbing  away  at  the  shoe. 

"  Why  don't  you  marrj^  him  if  you  like  him  so?"  Mr.  Bows  said, 
rather  savagely.  "  He  is  not  more  than  ten  years  younger  than  you 
are.  His  mother  may  relent,  and  you  might  go  and  live  and  have 
enough  at  Fairoaks  Park.  Why  not  go  and  be  a  lady  ?  I  could  go  on 
with  the  fiddle,  and  the  General  live  on  his  half-pay.  Why  don't  you 
marry  him  ?     You  know  he  likes  you." 

"  There's  others  that  likes  me  as  well,  Bows,  that  has  no  monc\ 
and  that's  old  enough,"  Miss  Milly  said  sententiously. 


PEN  DENNIS.  Ill 

"  Yes,  d it,"  said   Bows,  with  a  bitter   curse — "  that  are  old 

enough  and  poor  enough  and  fools  enough  for  anything." 

"  There's  old  fools,  and  young  fools  too.  You've  often  said  so, 
you  silly  man,"  the  imperious  beauty  said,  with  a  conscious  glance  at 
the  old  gentleman.  "  If  Pendennis  has  not  enough  money  to  live 
upon,  it's  folly  to  talk  about  marrying  him :  and  that's  the  long  and 
short  of  it." 

"And  the  boy.?"  said  Mr.  Bows.  "By  Jove!  you  throw  a  man 
away  like  an  old  glove,  Miss  Costigan." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Bows,"  said  Miss  Fotheringay, 
placidly,  rubbing  the  second  shoe.  "  If  he  had  had  half  of  the  two 
thousand  a-year  that  Papa  gave  him,  or  the  half  of  that,  I  would 
marry  him.  But  what  is  the  good  of  taking  on  with  a  beggar? 
We're  poor  enough  already.  There's  no  use  in  my  going  to  live  with 
an  old  lady  that's  testy  and  cross,  maybe,  and  would  grudge  me  every 
morsel  of  meat.  (Sure,  it's  near  dinner-time,  and  Suky  not  laid  the 
cloth  yet.)  And  then,"  added  Miss  Costigan,  quite  simply,  "  suppose 
there  was  a  family  ? — why.  Papa,  we  shouldn't  be  as  well  off  as  we 
are  now." 

"  'Deed,  then,  you  would  not,  Milly  dear,"  answered  the  father. 
"  And  there's  an  end  to  all  the  fine  talk  about  Mrs.  Arthur 
Pendennis  of  Fairoaks  Park — the  member  of  Parliament's  lady," 
said  Milly,  with  a  laugh.  "  Pretty  carriages  and  horses  we  should 
have  to  ride ! — that  you  were  always  talking  about,  Papa.  But  it's 
always  the  same.  If  a  man  looked  at  me,  you  fancied  he  was  going 
to  marry  me ;  and  if  he  had  a  good  coat,  yoa  fancied  he  was  as  rich 
as  Crazes." 

"As  Croesus,"  said  Mr.  Bows. 

"  Well,  call  'um  what  ye  like.  But  it's  a  fact  now  that  Papa  has 
married  me  these  eight  years  a  score  of  times.  Wasn't  I  to  be  my 
Lady  Poldoody  of  Oystherstown  Castle  ?  Then  there  was  the  Navy 
captain  at  Portsmouth,  and  the  old  surgeon  at  Norwich,  and  the 
Methodist  preacher  here  last  year,  and  who  knows  how  many  more .? 
Well,  I  bet  a  penny,  with  all  your  scheming,  I  shall  die  Milly  Costigan 
at  last.  So  poor  little  Arthur  has  no  money .?  Stop  and  take  dinner. 
Bows :  we've  a  beautiful  beef-steak  pudding." 

"  I  wonder  whether  she  is  on  with  Sir  Derby  Oaks,"  thought 
Bows,  whose  eyes  and  thoughts  were  always  watching  her.  "  The 
dodges  of  women  beat  all  comprehension;  and  I  am  sure  she 
wouldn't  let  the  lad  off  so  easily,  if  she  had  not  some  other  scheme 
on"  hand." 

It  will  have  been  perceived  that  Miss  Fotheringay,  though  silent 
in  general,  and  by  no  means  brilliant  as  a  conversationist  where 
poetry,  literature,  or  the  fine  arts  were  concerned,  could  talk  freely 


112  PENDENNIS. 

and  with  good  sense,  too,  in  her  ov/n  family  circle.  She  cannot  justly 
be  called  a  romantic  person :  nor  were  her  literary  acquirements 
great :  she  never  opened  a  Shakspeare  from  the  day  she  left  the  stage, 
nor,  indeed,  understood  it  during  all  the  time  she  adorned  the  boards : 
but  about  a  pudding,  a  piece  of  needle-work,  or  her  own  domestic 
affliirs,  she  was  as  good  a  judge  as  could  be  found ;  and  not  being 
misled  by  a  strong  imagination  or  a  passionate  temper,  was  better 
enabled  to  keep  her  judgment  cool.  When,  over  their  dinner,  Costigan 
tried  to  convince  himself  and  the  company,  that  the  Major's  statement 
regarding  Pen's  finances  was  unworthy  of  credit,  and  a  mere  ruse  upon 
the  old  hypocrite's  part  so  as  to  induce  them,  on  their  side,  to  break 
off  the  match,  Miss  Milly  would  not,  for  a  moment,  admit  the  possi- 
bility of  deceit  on  the  side  of  the  adversary :  and  pointed  out  clearly 
that  it  was  her  father  who  had  deceived  himself,  and  not  poor  little 
Pen  who  had  tried  to  take  them  in.  As  for  that  poor  lad,  she  said  she 
pitied  him  with  all  her  heart.  And  she  ate  an  exceedingly  good 
dinner  ;  to  the  adm.iration  of  Mr.  Bows,  who  had  a  remarkable  regard 
and  contempt  for  this  woman,  during  and  after  which  repast,  the  party 
devised  upon  the  best  means  of  bringing  this  love-matter  to  a  close. 
As  for  Costigan,  his  idea  of  tweaking  the  Major's  nose  vanished  with 
his  supply  of  after-dinner  whisky-and-water ;  and  he  was  submissive 
to  his  daughter,  and  ready  for  any  plan  on  which  she  might  decide,  in 
order  to  meet  the  crisis  which  she  saw  was  at  hand. 

The  Captain,  who,  as  long  as  he  had  a  notion  that  he  was  wronged, 
was  eager  to  face  and  demolish  both  Pen  and  his  uncle,  perhaps 
shrank  from  the  idea  of  meeting  the  former,  and  asked  "  what  the 
juice  they  were  to  say  to  the  lad  if  he  remained  steady  to  his  engage- 
ment, and  they  broke  from  theirs  ? "  "  What  ?  don't  you  know  how 
to  throw  a  man  over  ?  "  said  Bows ;  "  ask  a  woman  to  tell  you  ; "  and 
Miss  Fotheringay  showed  how  this  feat  was  to  be  done  simply  enough 
— nothing  was  more  easy.  "  Papa  writes  to  Arthur  to  know  what 
settlements  he  proposes  to  make  in  event  of  a  marriage ;  and  asks 
what  his  means  are.  Arthur  writes  back  and  says  what  he's  got,  and 
you'll  find  it's  as  the  Major  says,  I'll  go  bail.  Then  papa  writes,  and 
says  it's  not  enough,  and  the  match  had  best  be  at  an  end." 

"And  of  course  you  enclose  a  parting  line,  in  which  you  say  you 
will  always  regard  him  as  a  brother,"  said  Mr.  Bows,  eyeing  her  in 
his  scornful  way. 

"  Of  course,  and  so  I  shall,"  answered  IVIiss  Fotheringay.  '■  He's 
a  most  worthy  young  man,  I'm  sure.  I'll  thank  ye  hand  me  the  salt. 
Them  filberts  is  beautiful." 

"And  there  will  be  no  noses  pulled,  Cos,  my  boy.'  I'm  sorry 
you're  balked,"  said  ]\Ir.  Bows. 

"'Dad,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Cos,  rubbing  his  own. — *"  What'll  ye 


PENDENNIS.  113 

do  about  them  letters,  and  verses,  and  pomes,  Milly,  darling? — Ye 
must  send  'em  back." 

"  Wigsby  would  give  a  hundred  pound  for  'em,"  Bows  said,  with 
a  sneer. 

"  'Deed,  then,  he  would,"  said  Captain  Costigan,  who  wns 
easily  led. 

"Papa!"  said  Miss  Milly. — "  Ye  wouldn't  be  for  not  sending  the 
poor  boy  his  letters  back  ?  Them  letters  and  pomes  is  mine.  They 
were  very  long,  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  nonsense,  and  Latin,  and 
things  I  couldn't  understand  the  half  of;  indeed,  I've  not  read  'em  all ; 
but  we'll  send  'em  back  to  him  when  the  proper  time  comes.''  And 
going  to  a  drawer.  Miss  Fotheringay  took  out  from  it  a  number  of  the 
County  Chronicle  and  Chatteris  Champion,  in  which  Pen  had  written 
a  copy  of  flaming  verses  celebrating  her  appearance  in  the  character 
of  Imogen,  and  putting  by  the  leaf  upon  which  the  poem  appeared 
(for,  like  ladies  of  her  profession,  she  kept  the  favourable  printed 
notices  of  her  performances),  she  wrapped  up  Pen's  letters,  poems, 
passions,  and  fancies,  and  tied  them  with  a  piece  of  string  neatly,  as 
she  would  a  parcel  of  sugar. 

Nor  was  she  in  the  least  moved  while  performing  this  act.  What 
hours  the  boy  had  passed  over  those  papers !  What  love  and  longing : 
what  generous  faith  and  manly  devotion — what  watchful  nights  and 
lonely  fevers  might  they  tell  of!  She  tied  them  up  like  so  much 
grocery,  and  sate  down  and  made  tea  afterwards  with  a  perfectly 
placid  and  contented  heart :  while  Pen  was  yearning  after  her  ten 
miles  off:  and  hugging  her  image  to  his  soul. 


414  PENDENNTS, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  CRISIS. 

i\  /TAJOR  PENDENNIS  came  away  from  his  interview  with 
iVl  Captain  Costigan  in  a  state  of  such  concentrated  fury  as 
rendered  him  terrible  to  approach.  "  The  impudent  bog-trotting 
scamp,"  he  thought,  "dare  to  threaten  me!  Dare  to  talk  of  per- 
mitting his  damned  Costigans  to  marry  with  the  Pendennises !  Send 
me  a  challenge !  If  the  fellow  can  get  anything  in  the  shape  of  a 
gentleman  to  carry  it,  I  have  the  greatest  mind  in  life  not  to  balk 
him. — Psha !  what  would  people  say  if  I  were  to  go  out  with  a  tipsy 
mountebank,  about  a  row  with  an  actress  in  a  bam  ! "  So  when  the 
Major  saw  Dr.  Portman,  who  asked  anxiously  regarding  the  issue  of 
his  battle  with  the  dragon,  jMajor  Pendennis  did  not  care  to  inform 
the  divine  of  the  General's  insolent  behaviour,  but  stated  that  the 
affair  was  a  very  ugly  and  disagreeable  one,  and  that  it  was  by  no 
means  over  yet. 

He  enjoined  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Portman  to  say  nothing  about  the 
business  at  Fairoaks  ;  and  then  he  returned  to  his  hotel,  where  he 
vented  his  wrath  upon  Mr.  Morgan  his  valet,  "  dammin'  and  cussin' 
upstairs  and  downstairs,"  as  that  gentleman  observed  to  Mr,  Poker's 
man,  in  whose  company  he  partook  of  dinner  in  the  servants'  room 
of  the  George. 

The  servant  carried  the  news  to  his  master ;  and  Mr.  Foker  having 
finished  his  breakfast  about  this  time,  it  being  two  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  remembered  that  he  was  anxious  to  know  the  result  of  the 
intendew  between  his  two  friends,  and  having  inquired  the  number  of 
the  Major's  sitting-room,  went  over  in  his  brocade  dressing-gown,  and 
knocked  for  admission. 

The  Major  had  some  business,  as  he  had  stated,  respecting  a 
lease  of  the  widow's,  about  which  he  was  desirous  of  consulting  old 
Mr.  Tatham  the  lawyer,  who  had  been  his  brothers  man  of  business, 
and  who  had  a  branch  office  at  Clavering,  where  he  and  his  son 
attended  market  and  other  days  three  or  four  in  the  week.  This 
gentleman  and  his  client  were  now  in  consultation  when  Mr.  Foker 
showed  his  grand  dressing-gown  and  embroidered  skull-cap  at  Major 
Pendennis's  door. 


PENDENNIS.  115 

Seeing  the  Major  engaged  with  papers  and  red  tape,  and  an  old 
man  with  a  white  head,  the  modest  youth  was  for  drawing  back — and 
said,  "  O,  you're  busy — call  again  another  time."  But  Major  Pendennis 
wanted  to  see  him,  and  begged  him,  with  a  smile,  to  enter :  where- 
up6n  Mr.  Foker  took  off  the  embroidered  tarboosh  or  fez  (it  had 
been  worked  by  the  fondest  of  mothers)  and  advanced,  bowing  to  the 
gentlemen  and  smiling  on  them  graciously.  Mr.  Tatham  had  never 
seen  so  splendid  an  apparition  before  as  this  brocaded  youth,  who 
seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair,  spreading  out  his  crimson  skirts,  and 
looking  with  exceeding  kindness  and  frankness  on  the  other  two 
tenants  of  the  room.  "  You  seem  to  like  my  dressing-gown,  sir,"  he 
said  to  Mr.  Tatham.  "  A  pretty  thing,  isn't  it.''  Neat,  but  not  in  the 
least  gaudy.  And  how  do  yoic  do.  Major  Pendennis,  sir,  and  how 
does  the  world  treat  you  ? " 

There  was  that  in  Foker's  manner  and  appearance  which  would 
have  put  an  Inquisitor  into  good  humour,  and  it  smoothed  the  wrinkles 
under  Pendennis's  head  of  hair. 

"  I  have  had  an  interview  with  that  Irishman,  (you  may  speak 
before  my  friend,  Mr.  Tatham  here,  who  knows  all  the  affairs  of  the 
family,)  and  it  has  not,  I  own,  been  very  satisfactory.  He  won't 
believe  that  my  nephew  is  poor :  he  says  we  are  both  liars :  he  did 
me  the  honour  to  hint  that  I  was  a  coward,  as  I  took  leave.  And  I 
thought  when  you  knocked  at  the  door,  that  you  might  be  the  gentle- 
man whom  I  expect  with  a  challenge  from  Mr.  Costigan— that  is  how 
the  world  treats  me,  Mr.  Foker." 

"You  don't  mean  that  Irishman,  the  actress's  father?"  cried 
Mr.  Tatham,  who  was  a  dissenter  himself,  and  did  not  patronize  the 
drama. 

"  That  Irishman,  the  actress's  father — the  very  man.  Have  not 
you  heard  what  a  fool  my  nephew  has  made  of  himself  about  the  girl  1 " 
— and  Major  Pendennis  had  to  recount  the  story  of  his  nephew's  loves 
to  the  lawyer,  Mr.  Foker  coming  in  with  appropriate  comments  in  his 
usual  familiar  language. 

Tatham  was  lost  in  wonder  at  the  narrative.  Why  had  not  Mrs. 
Pendennis  married  a  serious  man,  he  thought — Mr.  Tatham  was  a 
widower — and  kept  this  unfortunate  boy  from  perdition?  As  for 
Miss  Costigan,  he  would  say  nothing:  her  profession  was  sufficient 
to  characterize  her.  Mr.  Foker  here  interposed  to  say  he  had  known 
some  uncommon  good  people  in  the  booths,  as  he  called  the  Temple 
of  the  Muses.  Well  it  might  be  so,  Mr.  Tatham  hoped  so— but  the 
father,  Tatham  knew  personally — a  man  of  the  worst  character — a 
wine-bibber  and  an  idler  in  taverns  and  billiard-rooms,  and  a  noto- 
rious insolvent.  "  I  can  understand  the  reason,  Major,"  he  said,  "why 
tlie  fellow  would  not  come  to  my  office  to  ascertain  the  truth  of  the 


Ii6  PEXDENNIS. 

statements  which  you  made  him. — -We  have  a  writ  out  against  him 
and  another  disreputable  fellow,  one  of  the  play-actors,  for  a  bill  given 
to  Mr.  Skinner  of  this  city,  a  most  respectable  Grocer  and  Wine  and 
Spirit  Merchant,  and  a  Member  of  the  Society  of  Friends.  This 
Costigan  came  crj-ing  to  Mr.  Skinner, — crying  in  the  shop,  sir, — and 
we  have  not  proceeded  against  him  or  the  other,  as  neither  were  worth 
powder  and  shot." 

It  was  whilst  I\Ir.  Tatham  was  engaged  in  telling  his  story  that  a 
third  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  there  entered  an  athletic  gentleman 
in  a  shabby  braided  frock,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  letter  with  a  large 
blotched  red  seal. 

"  Can  I  have  the  honour  of  speaking  with  Major  Pendennis  in 
private  ? "  he  began — "  I  have  a  few  words  for  your  ear,  sir.  I  am  the 
bearer  of  a  mission  from  my  friend  Captain  Costigan," — but  here  the 
man  with  the  bass  voice  paused,  faltered,  and  turned  pale  —he  caught 
sight  of  the  red  and  well-remembered  face  of  Mr.  Tatham. 

"  Hullo,  Garbetts,  speak  up !  "  cried  Mr.  Foker,  delighted. 

"  Why,  bless  my  soul,  it  is  the  other  party  to  the  bill ! "  said  Mr. 
Tatham.  "  I  say,  sir ;  stop  I  say."  But  Garbetts,  with  a  face  as  blank 
as  Macbeth's  when  Banquo's  ghost  appears  upon  him,  gasped  some 
inarticulate  words,  and  fled  out  of  the  room. 

The  Major's  gravity  was  entirely  upset,  and  he  burst  out  laughing. 
So  did  Mr.  Foker,  who  said,  "  By  Jove,  it  was  a  good  'un."  So  did 
the  attorney,  although  by  profession  a  serious  man. 

"  I  don't  think  there'll  be  any  fight.  Major,"  young  Foker  said  ;  and 
began  mimicking  the  tragedian.  "  If  there  is,  the  old  gentleman — 
your  name  Tatham  ? — ver%'  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance,  I\Ir. 
Tatham — may  send  the  bailiffs  to  separate  the  men ; "  and  Mr.  Tatham 
promised  to  do  so.  The  Major  was  by  no  means  sorry  at  the  ludicrous 
issue  of  the  quarrel.  "  It  seems  to  me,  sir,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Foker, 
''  that  you  always  arrive  to  put  me  into  good  humour." 

Nor  was  this  the  only  occasion  on  which  Mr.  Foker  this  day  was 
destined  to  be  of  service  to  the  Pendennis  family.  We  have  said  that 
he  had  the  entree  of  Captain  Costigan's  lodgings,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  afternoon  he  thought  he  would  pay  the  General  a  visit,  and  hear 
from  his  own  lips  what  had  occurred  in  the  conversation,  in  the 
morning,  with  Mr.  Pendennis.  Captain  Costigan  was  not  at  home. 
He  had  received  permission,  nay,  encouragement  from  his  daughter, 
to  go  to  the  convivial  club  at  the  Magpie  Hotel,  where  no  doubt  he 
was  bragging  at  that  moment  of  his  desire  to  murder  a  certain  ruffian ; 
for  he  was  not  only  brave,  but  he  knew  it  too,  and  liked  to  take  out 
his  courage,  and,  as  it  were,  give  it  an  airing  in  company. 

Costigan  then  was  absent,  but  Miss  Fotheringay  was  at  home 
washing  the  tea-cups  whilst  Mr.  Bows  sate  opposite  to  her. 


PENDENNIS.  117 

"Just  done  breakfast  I  see — how  do  ?"  said  Mr,  Foker,  popping  in 
his  little  funny  head. 

"  Get  out,  you  funny  little  man,"  cried  Miss  Fotheringay. 

"You  mean  come  in,"  answered  the  other. — "  Here  we  are  1  "  and 
entering  the  room  he  folded  his  arms  and  began  twirling  his  head 
round  and  round  with  immense  rapidity,  like  Harlequin  in  the  Panto- 
mime when  he  first  issues  from  his  cocoon  or  envelope.  Miss  Fother- 
ingay laughed  with  all  her  heart :  a  wink  of  Foker^s  would  set  her  off 
laughing,  when  the  bitterest  joke  Bows  ever  made  could  not  get  a 
smile  from  her,  or  the  finest  of  poor  Pen's  speeches  would  only  puzzle 
her.  At  the  end  of  the  harlequinade  he  sank  down  on  one  knee  and 
kissed  her  hand. 

"  You're  the  drollest  httle  man,"  she  said,  and  gave  him  a  great 
good-humoured  slap.  Pen  used  to  tremble  as  he  kissed  her  hand. 
Pen  would  have  died  of  a  slap. 

These  preliminaries  over,  the  three  began  to  talk;  Mr.  Foker 
amused  his  companions  by  recounting  to  them  the  scene  which  he 
had  just  witnessed  of  the  discomfiture  of  Mr.  Garbetts,  by  which  they 
learned,  for  the  first  time,  how  far  the  General  had  carried  his  wrath 
against  Major  Pendeniiis.  Foker  spoke  strongly  in  favour  of  the 
Major's  character  for  veracity  and  honour,  and  described  him  as  a 
tip-top  swell,  moving  in  the  upper  circle  of  society,  who  would  never 
submit  to  any  deceit — much  more  to  deceive  such  a  charming  young 
woman  as  Miss  Foth. 

He  touched  delicately  upon  the  delicate  marriage  question,  though 
he  couldn't  help  showing  that  he  held  Pen  rather  cheap.  In  fact,  he 
had  a  perhaps  just  contempt  for  Mr.  Pen's  high-flown  sentimentality ; 
his  own  weakness,  as  he  thought,  not  lying  that  way.  "  I  knew  it 
wouldn't  do.  Miss  Foth,"  said  he,  nodding  his  little  head.  "  Couldn't 
do.  Didn't  like  to  put  my  hand  into  the  bag,  but  knew  it  couldn't  do. 
He's  too  young  for  you:  too  green :  a  deal  too  green :  and  he  turns 
out  to  be  poor  as  Job.  Can't  have  him  at  no  price,  can  she, 
Mr.  Bo?" 

"  Indeed  he's  a  nice  poor  boy,"  said  the  Fotheringay,  rather  sadly. 

"  Poor  little  beggar,"  said  Bows,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
and  stealing  up  a  queer  look  at  Miss  Fotheringay.  Perhaps  he 
thought  and  wondered  at  the  way  in  which  women  play  with  men, 
and  coax  them  and  win  them  and  drop  them. 

But  Mr.  Bows  had  not  the  least  objection  to  acknowledge  that  he 
thought  Miss  Fotheringay  was  perfectly  right  in  giving  up  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis,  and  that  in  his  idea  the  match  was  always  an  absurd  one : 
and  Miss  Costigan  owned  that  she  thought  so  herself,  only  she  couldn't 
send  away  two  thousand  a-year.  "  It  all  comes  of  believing  Papa's 
silly  stories,"  she  said  ;  "  faith,  I'll  choose  for  mcsclf  another  time  " — 


li8  PENDENNIS. 

and  very  likely  the  large  image  of  Lieutenant  Sir  Derby  Oaks  entered 
into  her  mind  at  that  instant. 

After  praising  Major  Pendennis,  whom  Miss  Costigan  declared  to 
be  a  proper  gentleman  entirely,  smelling  of  lavender,  and  as  neat  as  a 
pin, — and  who  was  pronounced  by  Mr.  Bows  to  be  the  right  sort  of 
fellow,  though  rather  too  much  of  an  old  buck,  Mr.  Foker  suddenly 
bethought  him  to  ask  the  pair  to  come  and  meet  the  Major  that  very- 
evening  at  dinner  at  his  apartment  at  the  George.  "  He  agreed  to 
dine  with  me,  and  I  think  after  the — after  the  little  shindy  this 
morning,  in  which  I  must  say  the  General  was  wrong,  it  would  look 
kind,  you  know. — I  know  the  Major  fell  in  love  with  you,  Miss  Foth  : 
he  said  so." 

"  So  she  may  be  Mrs.  Pendennis  still,"  Bows  said  with  a  sneer — 
"  No,  thank  you,  Mr.  F. — I've  dined." 

"  Sure,  that  was  at  three  o'clock,"  said  Miss  Costigan,  who  had  an 
honest  appetite,  "  and  I  can't  go  without  you." 

"  We'll  have  lobster-salad  and  champagne,"  said  the  little  monster, 
who  could  not  construe  a  line  of  Latin,  or  do  a  sum  beyond  the  Rule 
of  Three.  Now,  for  lobster-salad  and  champagne  in  an  honourable 
manner.  Miss  Costigan  would  have  gone  anywhere — and  Major  Pen- 
dennis actually  found  himself  at  seven  o'clock  seated  at  a  dinner-table 
in  company  with  Mr,  Bows,  a  professional  fiddler,  and  Miss  Costigan, 
whose  father  had  wanted  to  blow  his  brains  out  a  few  hours  before. 

To  make  the  happy  meeting  complete,  Mr.  Foker,  who  knew 
Costigan's  haunts,  despatched  Stoopid  to  the  club  at  the  Magpie, 
where  the  General  was  in  the  act  of  singing  a  pathetic  song,  and 
brought  him  off  to  supper.  To  find  his  daughter  and  Bows  seated 
at  the  board  was  a  surprise  indeed — Major  Pendennis  laughed,  and 
cordially  held  out  his  hand,  which  the  General  Officer  grasped  avec 
effusion  as  the  French  say.  In  fact  he  was  considerably  inebriated, 
and  had  already  been  crjang  over  his  own  song  before  he  joined  the 
little  party  at  the  George.  He  burst  into  tears  more  than  once, 
during  the  entertainment,  and  called  the  Major  his  dearest  friend. 
Stoopid  and  Mr.  Foker  walked  home  with  him :  the  Major  gallantly 
giving  his  arm  to  Miss  Costigan.  He  was  received  with  great  friendli- 
ness when  he  called  the  next  day,  when  many  civilities  passed  between 
the  gentlemen.  On  taking  leave  he  expressed  his  anxious  desire  to 
serve  Miss  Costigan  on  any  occasion  in  which  he  could  be  useful  to 
her,  and  he  shook  hands  with  Mr.  Foker  most  cordially  and  gratefully, 
and  said  that  gentleman  had  done  him  the  very  greatest  service. 

"  All  right,"  said  Mr.  Foker :  and  they  parted  with  mutual  esteem. 

On  his  return  to  Fairoaks  the  next  day.  Major  Pendennis  did  not 
say  what  had  happened  to  him  on  the  previous  night,  or  allude  to  the 
company  in  which  he  had  passed  it.     But  he  engaged  Mr.  Smirke  to 


PENDENNIS.  119 

stop  to  dinner ;  and  any  person  accustomed  to  watch  his  manner 
might  have  remarked  that  there  was  something  constrained  in  his 
hilarity  and  talkativeness,  and  that  he  was  unusually  gracious  and 
watchful  in  his  communications  with  his  nephew.  He  gave  Pen  an 
emphatic  God-bless-you  when  the  lad  went  to  bed  ;  and  as  they  were 
about  to  part  for  the  night,  he  seemed  as  if  he  were  going  to  say 
something  to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  but  he  bethought  him  that  if  he  spoke 
he  might  spoil  her  night's  rest,  and  allowed  her  to  sleep  in  peace. 

The  next  morning  he  was  down  in  the  breakfast-room  earlier  than 
was  his  custom,  and  saluted  everybody  there  with  great  cordiality. 
The  post  used  to  arrive  commonly  about  the  end  of  this  meal.  When 
John,  the  old  servant,  entered,  and  discharged  the  bag  of  its  letters 
and  papers,  the  Major  looked  hard  at  Pen  as  the  lad  got  his — Arthur 
blushed,  and  put  his  letter  down.  He  knew  the  hand,  it  was  that  of 
old  Costigan,  and  he  did  not  care  to  read  it  in  public.  Major  Pen- 
dennis knew  the  letter,  too.  He  had  put  it  into  the  post  himself  in 
Chatteris  the  day  before. 

He  told  little  Laura  to  go  away,  which  the  child  did,  having  a 
thorough  dislike  to  him  ;  and  as  the  door  closed  on  her,  he  took 
Mrs.  Pendennis's  hand,  and  giving  her  a  look  full  of  meaning,  pointed 
to  the  letter  under  the  newspaper  which  Pen  was  pretending  to  read. 
"  Will  you  come  into  the  drawing-room  ? "  he  said.  "  I  want  to  speak 
to  you." 

And  she  followed  him,  wondering,  into  the  hall. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  said  nervously. 

"  The  affair  is  at  an  end,"  Major  Pendennis  said.  "  He  has  a 
letter  there  giving  him  his  dismissal.  I  dictated  it  myself  yesterday. 
There  are  a  few  lines  from  the  lady,  too,  bidding  him  farewell.  It  is 
all  over." 

Helen  ran  back  to  the  dining-room,  her  brother  following.  Pen 
had  jumped  at  his  letter  the  instant  they  were  gone.  He  was  reading 
it  with  a  stupefied  face.  It  stated  what  the  Major  had  said,  that 
Mr.  Costigan  was  most  gratified  for  the  kindness  with  which  Arthur 
had  treated  his  daughter,  but  that  he  was  only  now  made  aware  of 
Mr.  Pendennis's  pecuniary  circumstances.  They  were  such  that 
marriage  was  at  present  out  of  the  question,  and  considering  the 
great  disparity  in  the  age  of  the  two,  a  future  union  was  impossible. 
Under  these  circumstances,  and  with  the  deepest  regret  and  esteem 
for  him,  Mr.  Costigan  bade  Arthur  farewell,  and  suggested  that  he 
should  cease  visiting,  for  some  time  at  least,  at  his  house. 

A  few  lines  from  Miss  Costigan  were  inclosed.  She  acquiesced  in 
the  decision  of  her  Papa.  She  pointed  out  that  she  was  many  years 
older  than  Arthur,  and  that  an  engagement  was  not  to  be  thought  of 
She  would  always  be  grateful  for  his  kindness  to  her,  and  hoped  to 


I20  PENDEiXNIS. 

keep  his  friendship.  But  at  present,  and  until  the  pain  of  the  separa- 
tion should  be  over,  she  entreated  they  should  not  meet. 

Pen  read  Costigan's  letter  and  its  inclosure  mechanically,  hardly 
knowing  what  was  before  his  eyes.  He  looked  up  wildly,  and  saw  his 
mother  and  uncle  regarding  him  with  sad  faces.  Helen's,  indeed,  was 
full  of  tender  maternal  anxiety. 

"  What — what  is  this  ?"  Pen  said.  "  It's  some  joke.  This  is  not 
her  writing.  This  is  some  servant's  writing.  Who's  playing  these 
tricks  upon  me  ? " 

"  It  comes  under  her  father's  envelope,"  the  Major  said.  '■  Those 
letters  you  had  before  were  not  in  her  hand :  that  is  hers." 

"  How  do  you  know?"  said  Pen  ver)-  fiercely. 

"  I  saw  her  write  it,"  the  uncle  answered,  as  the  boy  started  up ; 
and  his  mother,  coming  forward,  took  his  hand.     He  put  her  away. 

"  How  came  you  to  see  her  ?  How  came  you  between  me  and  her  .' 
What  have  I  ever  done  to  you  that  you  should — Oh,  it's  not  true ;  it's 
not  true  !" — Pen  broke  out  with  a  wild  execration.  "  She  can't  have 
done  it  of  her  own  accord.  She  can't  mean  it.  She's  pledged  to  me. 
Who  has  told  her  lies  to  break  her  from  me .'' " 

"  Lies  are  not  told  in  the  family,  Arthur,"  Major  Pendennis  replied. 
"  I  told  her  the  truth,  which  was,  that  you  had  no  money  to  maintain 
her,  for  her  foolish  father  had  represented  you  to  be  rich.  And  when 
she  knew  how  poor  you  were,  she  withdrew  at  once,  and  without  any 
persuasion  of  mine.  She  was  quite  right.  She  is  ten  years  older  than 
you  are.  She  is  perfectly  unfitted  to  be  your  wife,  and  knows  it.  Look 
at  that  hand-writing,  and  ask  yourself,  is  such  a  woman  fitted  to  be 
the  companion  of  your  mother  ? " 

''  I  will  know  from  herself  if  it  is  true,"  Arthur  said,  crumpling  up 
the  paper. 

"  Won't  you  take  my  word  of  honour  ?  Her  letters  were  written 
by  a  confidante  of  hers,  who  writes  better  than  she  can — look  here. 
Here's  one  from  the  lady  to  your  friend,  Mr.  Foker.  You  have  seen 
her  with  Miss  Costigan,  as  whose  amanuensis  she  acted  " — the  Major 
said,  with  ever  so  little  of  a  sneer,  and  laid  down  a  certain  billet  which 
Mr.  Foker  had  given  to  him. 

"  It's  not  that,"  said  Pen,  burning  with  shame  and  rage.  "  I  suppose 
what  you  say  is  true,  sir,  but  I'll  hear  it  from  herself." 

"  Arthur!  "  appealed  his  mother. 

"  I  will  see  her,"  said  Arthur.  "  I'll  ask  her  to  marrj-  me,  once 
more.     I  will.     No  one  shall  prevent  me." 

"  What,  a  woman  who  spells  affection  with  one  f  .-*  Nonsense,  sir. 
Be  a  man,  and  remember  that  your  mother  is  a  lady.  She  was  never 
made  to  associate  with  that  tipsy  old  swindler  or  his  daughter.  Be  a 
man  and  forget  her,  as  she  does  you." 


PEXDENNIS.  121 

"  Be  a  man  and  comfort  your  mother,  my  Arthur,"  Helen  said, 
sjohig  and  embracing  him :  and  seeing  that  the  pair  were  greatly 
moved,  Major  Pendennis  went  out  of  the  room  and  shut  the  door  upon 
them,  wisely  judging  that  they  were  best  alone. 

He  had  won  a  complete  victory.  He  actually  had  brought  away 
Pen's  letters  in  his  portmanteau  from  Chatteris  :  having  complimented 
Mr.  Costigan,  when  he  returned  them,  by  giving  him  the  little  pro- 
missory note  which  had  disquieted  himself  and  Mr.  Garbetts  :  and  for 
which  the  Major  settled  with  Mr.  Tatham. 

Pen  rushed  wildly  oft"  to  Chatteris  that  day,  but  in  vain  attempted 
to  see  Miss  Fotheringay,  for  whom  he  left  a  letter,  inclosed  to  her 
father.  The  inclosure  was  returned  by  Mr.  Costigan,  who  begged  that 
all  correspondence  might  end  ;  and  after  one  or  two  further  attempts  of 
the  lad's,  the  indignant  General  desired  that  their  acquaintance  might 
cease.  He  cut  Pen  in  the  street.  As  Arthur  and  Foker  were  pacing 
the  Castle  walk,  one  day,  they  came  upon  Emily  on  her  father's  arm. 
.She  passed  without  any  nod  of  recognition.  Foker  felt  poor  Pen 
trembling  on  his  arm. 

His  uncle  wanted  him  to  travel,  to  quit  the  country  for  a  while,  and 
his  mother  urged  him  too  :  for  he  was  growing  very  ill,  and  suffered 
severely.  But  he  refused,  and  said  point-blank  he  would  not  go.  He 
would  not  obey  in  this  instance  :  and  his  mother  was  too  fond,  and  his 
uncle  too  wise  to  force  him.  Whenever  Miss  Fotheringay  acted,  he 
rode  over  to  the  Chatteris  Theatre  and  saw  her.  One  night  there 
were  so  few  people  in  the  house  that  the  Manager  returned  the  money. 
Pen  came  home  and  went  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock  and  had  a  fever.  If 
this  continues,  his  mother  will  be  going  over  and  fetching  the  girl,  the 
Major  thought,  in  despair.  As  for  Pen,  he  thought  he  should  die. 
We  are  not  going  to  describe  his  feelings,  or  give  a  dreary  journal  of 
his  despair  and  passion.  Have  not  other  gentlemen  been  balked  in 
love  besides  Mr.  Pen  ?    Yes,  indeed :  but  few  die  of  the  malady. 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN   WHICH    MISS    FOTHERINGAV   MAKES   A   NEW   ENGAGEMENT. 

WITHIN  a  short  period  of  the  events  above  narrated,  Mr. 
Manager  Bingley  was  performing  his  famous  character  of 
"  Rolla,"  in  "  Pizarro,"  to  a  house  so  exceedingly  thin,  that  it  would 
appear  as  if  the  part  of  Rolla  was  by  no  means  such  a  favourite  with 
the  people  of  Chatteris  as  it  was  with  the  accomplished  actor  himself. 
Scarce  anybody  was  in  the  theatre.  Poor  Pen  had  the  boxes  almost 
all  to  himself,  and  sate  there  lonely,  with  bloodshot  eyes,  leaning  over 
the  ledge,  and  gazing  haggardly  towards  the  scene,  when  Cora  came 
in.  When  she  was  not  on  the  stage,  he  saw  nothing.  Spaniards  and 
Peruvians,  processions  and  battles,  priests  and  virgins  of  the  sun,  went 
in  and  out,  and  had  their  talk,  but  Arthur  took  no  note  of  any  one  of 
them  ;  and  only  saw  Cora  whom  his  soul  longed  after.  He  said  after- 
wards that  he  wondered  he  had  not  taken  a  pistol  to  shoot  her,  so  mad 
was  he  with  love,  and  rage,  and  despair;  and  had  it  not  been  for  his 
mother  at  home,  to  whom  he  did  not  speak  about  his  luckless  con- 
dition, but  whose  silent  sympathy  and  watchfulness  greatly  comforted 
the  simple  half  heart-broken  fellow,  who  knows  but  he  might  have 
done  something  desperate,  and  have  ended  his  days  prematurely  in 
front  of  Chatteris  gaol  ?  There  he  sate  then,  miserable,  and  gazing  at 
her.  And  she  took  no  more  notice  of  him  than  he  did  of  the  rest  of 
the  house. 

The  Fotheringay  was  uncommonly  handsome,  in  a  white  raiment 
and  leopard  skin,  with  a  sun  upon  her  breast,  and  fine  tawdry  brace- 
lets on  her  beautiful  glancing  arms.  She  spouted  to  admiration  the 
few  words  of  her  part,  and  looked  it  still  better.  The  eyes,  which 
had  overthrown  Pen's  soul,  rolled  and  gleamed  as  lustrous  as  ever; 
but  it  was  not  to  him  that  they  were  directed  that  night.  He  did 
not  know  to  whom,  or  remark  a  couple  of  gentlemen,  in  the  bOx 
next  to  him,  upon  whom  Miss  Fotheringay's  glances  were  perpetu- 
ally shining. 

Nor  had  Pen  noticed  the  extraordinary  change  which  had  taken 
place  on  the  stage  a  short  time  after  the  entr>-  of  these  two  gentlemen 
into  the  theatre.  There  were  so  few  people  in  the  house,  that  the  first 
act  of  the  play  languished  entirely,  and  there  had  been  some  question 


PENDENNIS.  123 

of  returning  the  money,  as  upon  that  other  unfortunate  night  when 
poor  Pen  had  been  driven  away.  The  actors  were  perfectly  careless 
about  their  parts,  and  yawned  through  the  dialogue,  and  talked  loud 
to  each  other  in  the  intervals.  Even  Bingley  was  listless,  and  Mrs.  B. 
in  Elvira  spoke  under  her  breath. 

How  came  it  that  all  of  a  sudden  Mrs.  Bingley  began  to  raise  her 
voice  and  bellow  like  a  bull  of  Bashan  ?  Whence  was  it  that  Bingley, 
flinging  off  his  apathy,  darted  about  the  stage  and  yelled  like  Kean  ? 
Why  did  Garbetts  and  Rowkins  and  Miss  Rouncy  try,  each  of  them, 
the  force  of  their  charms  or  graces,  and  act  and  swagger  and  scowl  and 
spout  their  very  loudest  at  the  two  gentlemen  in  box  No.  3  ? 

One  was  a  quiet  little  man  in  black,  with  a  grey  head  and  a  jolly 
shrewd  face — the  other  was  in  all  respects  a  splendid  and  remarkable 
individual.  He  was  a  tall  and  portly  gentleman  with  a  hooked  nose 
and  a  profusion  of  curling  brown  hair  and  whiskers ;  his  coat  was 
covered  with  the  richest  frogs,  braiding,  and  velvet.  He  had  under- 
waistcoats,  many  splendid  rings,  jewelled  pins  and  neck-chains.  When 
he  took  out  his  yellow  pocket-handkerchief  with  his  hand  that  was 
cased  in  white  kids,  a  delightful  odour  of  musk  and  bergamot  was 
shaken  through  the  house.  He  was  evidently  a  personage  of  rank,  and 
it  was  at  him  that  the  little  Chatteris  company  was  acting. 

He  was,  in  a  word,  no  other  than  Mr.  Dolphin,  the  great  manager 
from  London,  accompanied  by  his  faithful  friend  and  secretary  Mr. 
William  Minns:  without  whom  he  never  travelled.  He  had  not  been 
ten  minutes  in  the  theatre  before  his  august  presence  there  was  per- 
ceived by  Bingley  and  the  rest :  and  they  all  began  to  act  their  best 
and  try  to  engage  his  attention.  Even  Miss  Fotheringay's  dull  heart, 
which  was  disturbed  at  nothing,  felt  perhaps  a  flutter,  when  she  came 
in  presence  of  the  famous  London  Impresario.  She  had  not  much  to 
do  in  her  part,  but  to  look  handsome,  and  stand  in  picturesque  atti- 
tudes encircling  her  child  :  and  she  did  this  work  to  admiration.  In 
vain  the  various  actors  tried  to  win  the  favour  of  the  great  stage 
Sultan.  Pizarro  never  got  a  hand  from  him.  Bingley  yelled,  and 
Mrs.  Bingley  bellowed ,  and  the  Manager  only  took  snuff  out  of  his 
great  gold  box.  It  was  only  in  the  last  scene,  when  Rolla  comes  in 
staggering  with  the  infant  (Bingley  is  not  so  strong  as  he  was,  and  his 
fourth  son  Master  Talma  Bingley  is  a  monstrous  large  child  for  his 
age) — when  Rolla  comes  staggering  with  the  child  to  Cora,  who  rushes 
forward  with  a  shriek  and  says — "  O  God,  there's  blood  upon  him  ! " 
— that  the  London  manager  clapped  his  hands,  and  broke  out  with  an 
enthusiastic  bravo. 

Then  having  concluded  his  applause,  Mr.  Dolphin  gave  his  secre- 
tary a  slap  on  the  shoulder,  and  said,  "  By  Jove,  Billy,  she'll  do ! " 
"Who  taught  her  that  dodge?"  said  old  Billy,  who  was  a  sardonic 


124  PEA'DENNIS. 

old  gentleman—"  I  remember  her  at  the  Olympic,  and  hang  me  if  she 
could  say  Bo  to  a  goose."' 

It  was  httle  Mr.  Bows  in  the  orchestra  who  had  taught  her  the 
'•dodge"  in  question.  All  the  company  heard  the  applause,  and,  as 
the  curtain  went  down,  came  round  her  and  congratulated  and  hated 
Miss  Fotheringay. 

Now  Mr,  Dolphin's  appearance  in  the  remote  little  Chatteris 
theatre  may  be  accounted  for  in  this  manner.  In  spite  of  all  his 
exertions,  and  the  perpetual  blazes  of  triumph,  coruscations  of  talent, 
victories  of  good  old  English  comedy,  which  his  play-bills  advertised, 
his  theatre  (which,  if  you  please,  and  to  injure  no  present  suscepti- 
bilities and  vested  interests,  we  shall  call  the  Museum  Theatre)  by  no 
means  prospered,  and  the  famous  Impresario  found  himself  on  the 
verge  of  ruin.  The  great  Hubbard  had  acted  legitimate  drama  for 
twenty  nights,  and  failed  to  remunerate  anybody  but  himself:  the 
celebrated  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Cawdor  had  come  out  in  Mr.  Rawhead's 
tragedy,  and  in  their  favourite  round  of  pieces,  and  had  not  attracted 
the  public.  Herr  Garbage's  lions  and  tigers  had  drawn  for  a  little 
time,  until  one  of  the  animals  had  bitten  a  piece  out  of  the  Herrs 
shoulder ;  when  the  Lord  Chamberlain  interfered,  and  put  a  stop  to 
this  species  of  performance :  and  the  grand  Lyrical  Drama,  though 
brought  out  with  unexampled  splendour  and  success,  with  Monsieur 
Poumons  as  first  tenor,  and  an  enormous  orchestra,  had  almost  crushed 
poor  Dolphin  in  its  triumphant  progress :  so  that  great  as  his  genius 
and  resources  were,  they  seemed  to  be  at  an  end.  He  was  dragging  on 
his  season  wretchedly  with  half  salaries,  small  operas,  feeble  old  come- 
dies, and  his  ballet  company ;  and  everybody  was  looking  out  for  the 
day  when  he  should  appear  in  the  Gazette. 

One  of  the  illustrious  patrons  of  the  Museum  Theatre,  and  occu- 
pant of  the  great  proscenium-box,  was  a  gentleman  whose  name  has 
been  mentioned  in  a  previous  historj-;  that  refined  patron  of  the  arts, 
and  enlightened  lover  of  music  and  the  drama,  the  Most  Noble  the 
Marquis  of  Steyne.  His  lordship's  avocations  as  a  statesman  pre- 
vented him  from  attending  the  playhouse  very  often,  or  coming  very 
early.  But  he  occasionally  appeared  at  the  theatre  in  time  for  the 
ballet,  and  was  always  received  with  the  greatest  respect  by  the 
Manager,  from  whom  he  sometimes  condescended  to  receive  a  visit  in 
his  box.  It  communicated  with  the  stage,  and  when  anything  occurred 
there  which  particularly  pleased  him,  when  a  new  face  made  its 
appearance  among  the  cor\ph^es,  or  a  fair  dancer  executed  3. pas  with 
especial  grace  or  agility,  Mr.  Wenham,  Mr.  Wagg,  or  some  other  aide- 
de-camp  of  the  noble  Marquis,  would  be  commissioned  to  go  behind 
the  scenes,  and  express  the  great  man's  approbation,  or  make  the 
inquiries  which  were   prompted   by  his  lordship's   curiosity,   or  his 


PENDENNIS.  125 

interest  in  the  dramatic  art.  He  could  not  be  seen  by  the  audience, 
for  Lord  Steyne  sate  modestly  behind  a  curtain,  and  looked  only 
towards  the  stage — but  you  could  know  he  was  in  the  house,  by  the 
glances  which  all  the  corps-de-ballet,  and  all  the  principal  dancers, 
cast  towards  his  box.  I  have  seen  many  scores  of  pairs  of  eyes  (as  in 
the  Palm  Dance  in  the  ballet  of  Cook  at  Otaheite,  where  no  less  than 
a  hundred-and-twenty  lovely  female  savages  in  palm-leaves  and  feather 
aprons,  were  made  to  dance  round  Floridar  as  Captain  Cook,)  ogling 
that  box  as  they  performed  before  it,  and  have  often  wondered  to 
remark  the  presence  of  mind  of  Mademoiselle  Sauterelle,  or  Made- 
moiselle de  Bondi  (known  as  la  petite  Caoutchouc),  who,  when  actually 
up  in  the  air  quivering  like  so  many  shuttlecocks,  always  kept  their 
lovely  eyes  winking  at  that  box  in  which  the  great  Steyne  sate.  Now 
and  then  you  would  hear  a  harsh  voice  from  behind  the  curtain,  cry, 
"  Brava,  Brava,"  or  a  pair  of  white  gloves  wave  from  it,  and  begin  to 
applaud.  Bondi,  or  Sauterelle,  when  they  came  down  to  earth,  curtsied 
and  smiled,  especially  to  those  hands,  before  they  walked  up  the  stage 
again,  panting  and  happy. 

One  night  this  great  Prince  surrounded  by  a  few  choice  friends 
was  in  his  box  at  the  Museum,  and  they  were  making  such  a  noise 
and  laughter  that  the  pit  was  scandalized,  and  many  indignant  voices 
were  bawling  out  silence  so  loudly,  that  Wagg  wondered  the  police 
did  not  interfere  to  take  the  rascals  out.  Wenham  was  amusing  the 
party  in  the  box  with  extracts  from  a  private  letter  which  he  had 
received  from  Major  Pendennis,  whose  absence  in  the  country  at  the 
full  London  season  had  been  remarked,  and  of  course  deplored  by  his 
friends. 

"  The  secret  is  out,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  "  there's  a  woman  in  the 
case." 

"  Why,  d it,   Wenham,  he's  your  age,"  said  the  gentleman 

behind  the  curtain. 

"  Pour  les  ames  bien  nees,  I'amour  ne  compte  pas  le  nombre  des 
annees,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  with  a  gallant  air.  "  For  my  part,  I  hope 
to  be  a  victim  till  I  die,  and  to  break  my  heart  every  year  of  my  life." 
The  meaning  of  which  sentence  was, "  My  lord,  you  need  not  talk ; 
I'm  three  years  younger  than  you,  and  twice  as  well  conserve'." 

"Wenham,  you  affect  me,"  said  the  great  man,  with  one  of  his 

usual  oaths.      "  By you  do.      I  like  to  see  a  fellow  preserving  all 

the  illusions  of  youth  up  to  our  time  of  life — and  keeping  his  heart 
warm  as  yours  is.  Hang  it,  sir, — it's  a  comfort  to  meet  with  such 
a  generous,  candid  creature. — Who's  that  gal  in  the  second  row,  with 
blue  ribbons,  third  from  the  stage — fine  gal.  Yes,  you  and  I  are 
sentimentalists.  Wagg  I  don't  think  so  much  cares — it's  the  storaacl) 
rather  more  than  the  heart  with  you,  eh,  Wagg,  my  boy  ?" 


126  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  like  everything  that's  good,"  said  Mr.  Wagg,  generously. 
''  Beauty  and  Burgundy,  Venus  and  Venison.  I  don't  say  that 
Venus's  turtles  are  to  be  despised,  because  they  don't  cook  them 
at  the  London  Tavern  :  but — but  tell  us  about  old  Pendennis, 
Mr.  Wenham,"  he  abruptly  concluded — for  his  joke  flagged  just  then, 
as  he  saw  that  his  patron  was  not  listening.  In  fact,  Steyne's  glasses 
were  up,  and  he  was  examining  some  object  on  the  stage. 

"  Yes,  I've  heard  that  joke  about  Venus's  turtle  and  the  London 
Tavern  before — you  begin  to  fail,  my  poor  Wagg.  If  you  don't  mind 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  have  a  new  Jester,"  Lord  Steyne  said,  laying  down 
his  glass.     "  Go  on,  Wenham,  about  old  Pendennis." 

"  Dear  Wenham,  he  begins," — Mr.  Wenham  read,-r-"  As  you  have 
had  my  character  in  your  hands  for  the  last  three  weeks,  and  no  doubt 
have  torn  me  to  shreds,  according  to  your  custom,  I  think  you  can 
afford  to  be  good-humoured  by  way  of  variety,  and  to  do  me  a 
service.  It  is  a  delicate  matter,  entre  nous,  iitte  affaire  de  cceiir.  There 
is  a  young  friend  of  mine  who  is  gone  wild  about  a  certain  Miss 
Fotheringay,  an  actress  at  the  theatre  here,  and  I  must  ovn\  to  you, 
as  handsome  a  woman,  and,  as  it  appears  to  me,  as  good  an  actress 
as  ever  put  on  rouge.  She  does  Ophelia,  Lady  Teazle,  i^Irs.  Haller — 
that  sort  of  thing.  Upon  my  word,  she  is  as  splendid  as  Georges  in 
her  best  days,  and,  as  far  as  I  know,  utterly  superior  to  anything  we 
have  on  our  scene.  /  waiti  a  Lotidoti  engagcinent  for  her.  Can't  you 
get  your  friend  Dolphin  to  come  and  see  her — to  engage  her — to  take 
her  out  of  this  place  '^.  A  word  from  a  noble  friend  of  ours  (you  under- 
stand) would  be  invaluable,  and  if  you  could  get  the  Gaunt  House 
interest  for  me — I  will  promise  aiiytlmig  I  can  in  return  for  your 
service — which  I  shall  consider  one  of  the  greatest  that  can  be  done  io 
ine.  Do,  do  this  now  as  a  good  fellow,  which  /  always  said  you  were: 
and  in  return,  command  yours  truly, 

"  A.  Pendennis." 

"  It's  a  clear  case,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  having  read  this  letter; 
"  old  Pendennis  is  in  love." 

"And  wants  to  get  the  woman  up  to  London — evidently,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Wagg. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  Pendennis  on  his  knees,  with  the  rheuma- 
tism," said  Mr.  Wenham. 

"  Or  accommodating  the  beloved  object  with  a  lock  of  his  hair," 
said  Wagg. 

"  Stuff,"  said  the  great  man.  "  He  has  relations  in  the  county, 
liasn't  he  ?  He  said  something  about  a  nephew,  whose  interest  could 
return  a  member.  It  is  the  nephew's  affair,  depend  on  it.  The  young 
one  is  in  a  scrape.     I  was  mysdf — when  I  was  in  the  fifth  fonn  at 


K 


PENDENNIS.  127 

Eton — a  market-gardener's  daughter — and  swore  I'd  marry  her.  I 
was  mad  about  her— poor  Polly ! " — Here  he  made  a  pause,  and 
perhaps  the  past  rose  up  to  Lord  Steyne,  and  George  Gaunt  was  a  boy 
again  not  altogether  lost. — "  But  I  say,  she  must  be  a  fine  woman 
from  Pendennis's  account.  Have  in  Dolphin,  and  let  us  hear  if  he 
knows  anything  of  her." 

At  this  Wenham  sprang  out  of  the  box,  passed  the  servitor  who 

waited  at  the  door  communicating  with  the  stage,  and  who  saluted 

Mr.  Wenham  with  profound  respect ;  and  the  latter  emissary,  pushing 

on  and  familiar  with  the  place,  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  ciut  the 

manager,  who  was  employed,  as  he  not  unfrequently  was,  in  swearing 

and  cursing  the  ladies  of  the  corps-de-ballet  for  not  doing  their  duty. 

j  The  oaths  died  away  on  Mr.  Dolphin's  lips,  as  soon  as  he  saw 

j    Mr.  Wenham ;  and  he  drew  off  the  hand  which  was  clenched  in  the 

I   face  of  one  of  the   offending  coryphees,  to   grasp  that  of  the  new 

I    comer.      "How  do,   Mr.  Wenham?      How's  his  lordship  to-night? 

J    Looks  uncommonly  well,"    said  the  manager,  smiling,  as  if  he  had 

\   never  been  out  of  temper  in  his  life ;  and  he  was  only  too  delighted 

!j  to  follow  Lord  Steyne's  ambassador,  and  pay  his  personal  respects  to 

ij  that  great  man. 

1  The  visit  to  Chatteris  was  the  result  of  their  conversation ;  and 
^  Mr.  Dolphin  wrote  to  his  Lordship  from  that  place,  and  did  himself 
if  the  honour  to  inform  the  Marquis  of  Steyne,  that  he  had  seen  the  lady 
i  about  whom  his  Lordship  had  spoken,  that  he  was  as  much  struck  by 
\\  her  talents  as  he  was  by  her  personal  appearance,  and  that  he  had 
;  j  made  an  engagement  with  Miss  Fotheringay,  who  would  soon  have 
'  I  the  honour  of  appearing  before  a  London  audience,  and  his  noble  and 
I  enlightened  patron  the  Marquis  of  Steyne. 

!  Pen  read  the  announcement  of  Miss  Fotheringay's  engagement  in 
:  \  the  Chatteris  paper,  where  he  had  so  often  praised  her  charms.  The 
I  editor  made  very  handsome  mention  of  her  talent  and  beauty,  and 
I  I  prophesied  her  success  in  the  metropolis.  Bingley,  the  manager, 
I  began  to  advertise  "  The  last  night  of  Miss  Fotheringay's  engage- 
I  ment."  Poor  Pen  and  Sir  Derby  Oaks  were  very  constant  at  the 
I  play:  Sir  Derby  in  the  stage-box,  throwing  bouquets  and  getting 
1  glances. — Pen  in  the  almost  deserted  boxes,  haggard,  wretched,  and 
'  lonely.  Nobody  cared  whether  Miss  Fotheringay  was  going  or  staying 
.  except  those  two — and  perhaps  one  more,  which  was  Mr.  Bows  of  the 
'  orchestra. 

He  came  out  of  his  place  one  night,  and  went  into  the  house  to  the 

j  box  where  Pen  was ;  and  he  held  out  his  hand  to  him,  and  asked  him 

I  to  come  and  walk.     They  walked  down  the  street  together ;  and  went 

,   j  and  sate  upon  Chatteris  bridge  in  the  moonlight,  and  talked  about 

.   !  Her.     "  We  may  sit  on  the  same  bridge,"  said  he :  "  we  have  been 


128  P£XDL\yA7S. 

in  the  same  boat  for  a  long  time.  You  arc  not  the  only  man  who  has 
made  a  fool  of  himself  about  that  woman.  And  I  have  less  excuse 
than  you,  because  I'm  older  and  know  her  better.  She  has  no  more 
heart  than  the  stone  you  are  leaning  on ;  and  it  or  you  or  I  might  fall 
into  the  water,  and  never  come  up  again,  and  she  wouldn't  care.  Yes 
— she  would  care  for  me,  because  she  wants  me  to  teach  her:  and  she 
won't  be  able  to  get  on  without  me,  and  wnll  be  forced  to  send  for  me 
from  London.  But  she  wouldn't  if  she  didn't  want  me.  She  has  no 
heart  and  no  head,  and  no  sense,  and  no  feelings,  and  no  griefs  or 
cares,  whatever.  I  w-as  going  to  say  no  pleasures — but  the  fact  is,  she 
does  like  her  dinner,  and  she  is  pleased  when  people  admire  her." 

"  And  you  do  ?"  said  Pen,  interested  out  of  himself,  and  wondering 
at  the  crabbed  homely  little  old  man. 

"  It's  a  habit,  like  taking  snuff,  or  drinking  drams,"  said  the  other, 
"  I've  been  taking  her  these  five  years,  and  can't  do  without  her.  It 
was  I  made  her.  If  she  doesn't  send  for  me,  I  shall  follow  her :  but  1 
know  she'll  send  for  me.  She  wants  me.  Some  day  she'll  marry,  and 
fling  me  over,  as  I  do  the  end  of  this  cigar." 

The  little  flaming  spark  dropped  into  the  water  below,  and  disap- 
peared ;  and  Pen,  as  he  rode  home  that  night,  actually  thought  about 
somebodv  but  himself. 


PENDENNIS,  J  29 


CHAPTER   XV. 

THE     HAPPY     VILLAGE. 

UNTIL  the  enemy  had  retired  altogether  from  before  the  place, 
Major  Pendennis  was  resolved  to  keep  his  garrison  in  Fairoaks. 
He  did  not  appear  to  watch  Pen's  behaviour,  or  to  put  any  restraint 
on  his  nephew's  actions,  but  he  managed,  nevertheless,  to  keep  the  lad 
constantly  under  his  eye  or  those  of  his  agents,  and  young  Arthur's 
comings  and  goings  were  quite  well  known  to  his  vigilant  guardian. 

I  suppose  there  is  scarcely  any  man  who  reads  this  or  any  other 
novel  but  has  been  balked  in  love  sometime  or  the  other,  by  fate,  and 
circumstance,  by  falsehood  of  women,  or  his  own  fault.  Let  that 
worthy  friend  recall  his  own  sensations  under  the  circumstances,  and 
apply  them  as  illustrative  of  Mr.  Pen's  anguish.  Ah  !  what  weary 
nights  and  sickening  fevers !  Ah  !  what  mad  desires  dashing  up 
against  some  rock  of  obstruction  or  indifference,  and  flung  back  agai^ 
from  the  unimpressionable  granite !  If  a  list  could  be  made  this  very 
night  in  London  of  the  groans,  thoughts,  imprecations  of  tossing 
lovers,  what  a  catalogue  it  would  be !  I  wonder  what  a  per-centage  of 
the  male  population  of  the  metropolis  will  be  lying  awake  at  two  oi- 
three  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  counting  the  hours  as  they  go  by 
knelling  drearily,  and  rolling  from  left  to  right,  restless,  yearning,  and 
heart-sick  ?  What  a  pang  it  is !  I  never  knew  a  man  die  of  love, 
certainly,  but  I  have  known  a  twelve-stone  man  go  down  to  nine  stone 
five  under  a  disappointed  passion,  so  that  pretty  nearly  a  quarter  of  him 
may  be  said  to  have  perished:  and  that  is  no  small  portion.  He  has 
come  back  to  his  old  size  subsequently — perhaps  is  bigger  than  ever: 
very  likely  some  new  affection  has  closed  round  his  heart  and  ribs  and 
'  made  them  comfortable,  and  young  Pen  is  a  man  who  will  console 
himself  like  the  rest  of  us.  We  say  this  lest  the  ladies  should  be  dis- 
posed to  deplore  him  prematurely,  or  be  seriously  uneasy  with  regard  to 
his  complaint.  His  mother  was,  but  what  will  not  a  maternal  fondness 
fear  or  invent?  "  Depend  on  it,  my  dear  creature,"  Major  Pendennis 
would  say  gallantly  to  her,  "  the  boy  will  recover.  As  soon  as  we  get 
her  out  of  the  country,  we  will  take  him  somewhere,  and  show  him  a 
little  life.  Meantime  make  yourself  easy  .-about  him.  Half  a  fellow's 
pangs  at  losing  a  woman  result  from  vanity  more  than  affection.     To 

9 


■130  PENDENNIS. 

be  left  by  a  woman  is  the  deuce  and  all,  to  be  sure ;  but  look  how 
easily  we  leave  'em." 

Mrs.  Pendennis  did  not  know.  This  sort  of  knowledge  had  by 
no  means  come  within  the  simple  lad>^s  scope.  Indeed,  she  did  not 
like  the  subject  or  to  talk  of  it :  her  heart  had  had  its  own  little  private 
misadventure,  and  she  had  borne  up  against  it,  and  cured  it:  and 
perhaps  she  had  not  much  patience  with  other  folks'  passions,  except, 
of  course,  Arthur's,  whose  sufferings  she  made  her  own,  feeling  indeed 
very  likely,  in  many  of  the  boy's  illnesses  and  pains,  a  great  deal  more 
than  Pen  himself  endured.  And  she  watched  him  through  this  present 
grief  with  a  jealous  silent  sympathy;  although,  as  we  have  said,  he  did 
not  talk  to  her  of  his  unfortunate  condition. 

The  Major  must  be  allowed  to  have  had  not  a  little  merit  and  for- 
bearance, and  to  have  exhibited  a  highly  creditable  degree  of  family 
affection.  The  life  at  Fairoaks  was  uncommonly  dull  to  a  man  who 
had  the  entree  of  half  the  houses  in  London,  and  was  in  the  habit  of 
making  his  bow  in  three  or  four  drawing-rooms  of  a  night.  A  dinner 
with  Doctor  Portman  or  a  neighbouring  Squire  now  and  then ;  a 
drcaiy  rubber  at  backgammon  with  the  widow,  who  did  her  utmost  to 
amuse  him ;  these  were  the  chief  of  his  pleasures.  He  used  to  long 
for  the  arrival  of  the  bag  with  the  letters,  and  he  read  every  word  of 
the  evening  paper.  He  doctored  himself  too,  assiduously, — a  course 
of  quiet  living  would  suit  him  well,  he  thought,  after  the  London  ban- 
quets. He  dressed  himself  laboriously  every  morning  and  afternoon : 
he  took  regular  exercise  up  and  down  the  terrace  walk.  Thus,  with 
his  cane,  his  toilet,  his  medicine-chest,  his  backgammon-box,  and  his 
newspaper,  this  worthy  and  worldly  philosopher  fenced  himself  against 
ennui ;  and  if  he  did  not  improve  each  shining  hour,  like  the  bees  by 
the  widoVs  garden  wall.  Major  Pendennis  made  one  hour  after  another 
pass  as  he  could ;  and  rendered  his  captivity  just  tolerable. 

Pen  sometimes  took  the  box  at  backgammon  of  a  night,  or  would 
listen  to  his  mother's  simple  music  of  summer  evenings — but  he  was 
very  restless  and  wretched  in  spite  of  all :  and  has  been  known  to  be 
up  before  the  early  daylight  even :  and  down  at  a  carp-pond  in 
Clavering  Park,  a  dreary  pool  with  innumerable  whispering  rushes 
ind  green  alders,  where  a  milkmaid  drowned  herself  in  the  Baronet's 
grandfather's  time,  and  her  ghost  was  said  to  walk  still.  But  Pen 
did  not  drown  himself,  as  perhaps  his  mother  fancied  might  be  his 
intention.  He  liked  to  go  and  fish  there,  and  tliink  and  think  at 
leisure,  as  the  float  quivered  in  the  little  eddies  of  the  pond,  and  the 
fish  flapped  about  him.  If  he  got  a  bite  he  was  excited  enough:  and 
in  this  way  occasionally  brought  home  carps,  tenches,  and  eels,  which 
the  Major  cooked  in  the  Continental  fashion. 

By  this  pond,  and  under  a  tree,  which  was  his  favourite  resort,  Pea 


PENDENNIS.  131 

composed  a  number  of  poems  suitable  to  his  circumstances — over 
which  verses  he  blushed  in  after  days,  wondering  how  he  could  ever 
have  invented  such  rubbish.  And  as  for  the  tree,  why  it  is  in  a 
hollow  of  this  very  tree,  where  he  used  to  put  his  tin-box  of  ground- 
bait,  and  other  fishing  commodities,  that  he  afterwards — but  we  are 
advancing  matters.  Suffice  it  to  say,  he  wrote  poems  and  relieved 
himself  very  much.  When  a  man's  grief  or  passion  is  at  this  point, 
it  may  be  loud,  but  it  is  not  very  severe.  When  a  gentleman  is 
cudgelling  his  brain  to  find  any  rhyme  for  sorrow,  besides  borrow 
and  to-morrow,  his  woes  are  nearer  at  an  end  than  he  thinks  for.  So 
were  Pen's.  He  had  his  hot  and  cold  fits,  his  days  of  sullenness 
and  peevishness,  and  of  blank  resignation  and  despondency,  and 
occasional  mad  paroxysms  of  rage  and  longing,  in  which  fits  Rebecca 
•would  be  saddled  and  galloped  fiercely  about  the  country,  or  into 
Chatteris,  her  rider  gesticulating  wildly  on  her  back,  and  astonishing 
carters  and  turnpikemen  as  he  passed,  crying  out  the  name  of  the 
false  one. 

Mr.  Foker  became  a  very  frequent  and  welcome  visitor  at  Fairoaks 
during  this  period,  where  his  good  spirits  and  oddities  always  amused 
the  Major  and  Pendennis,  while  they  astonished  the  widow  and  little 
Laura  not  a  little.  His  tandem  made  a  great  sensation  in  Clavering 
market-place :  where  he  upset  a  market  stall,  and  cut  Mrs.  Pybus's 
poodle  over  the  shaven  quarters,  and  drank  a  glass  of  raspberry  bitters 
at  the  Clavering  Arms.  All  the  society  in  the  little  place  heard  who 
he  was,  and  looked  out  his  name  in  their  Peerages.  He  was  so  young, 
and  their  books  so  old,  that  his  name  did  not  appear  in  many  of  their 
volumes;  and  his  mamma,  now  quite  an  antiquated  lady,  figured 
amongst  the  progeny  of  the  Earl  of  Rosherville,  as  Lady  Agnes 
Milton  still.  But  his  name,  wealth,  and  honourable  lineage  were 
speedily  known  about  Clavering,  where  you  may  be  sure  that  poor 
Pen's  little  transaction  with  the  Chatteris  actress  was  also  pretty  freely 
discussed. 

Looking  at  the  little  old  town  of  Clavering  St.  Mary  from  the 
London  road  as  it  runs  by  the  lodge  at  Fairoaks,  and  seeing  the  rapid 
and  shining  Brawl  winding  dqwn  from  the  town  and  skirting  the 
woods  of  Clavering  Park,  and  the  ancient  church  tower  and  peaked 
roofs  of  the  houses  rising  up  amongst  trees  and  old  walls,  behind 
which  swells  a  fair  back-ground  of  sunshiny  hills  that  stretch  from 
Clavering  westwards  towards  the  sea  —  the  place  appears  to  be 
so  cheery  and  comfortable  that  many  a  traveller's  heart  must  have 
yearned  towards  it  from  the  coach-top,  and  he  must  have  thought 
that  it  was  in  such  a  calm  friendly  nook  he  would  like  to  shelter  at 
jle.     Tom  Smith,  who  used  to  drive  the  Alacrity 


Ifcr 


132  PENDENXJS. 

coach,  would  often  point  to  a  tree  near  the  river,  from  which  a  fine 
view  of  the  church  and  town  was  commanded,  and  inform  his  com- 
panion on  the  box  that  "  Artises  come  and  take  hoff  the  Church  from 
that  there  tree.— It  was  a  Habby  once,  sir:" — and  indeed  a  pretty 
view  it  is,  which  I  recommend  to  Mr.  Stanfield  or  Mr.  Roberts,  for 
their  next  tour. 

Like  Constantinople  seen  from  the  Bosphorus ;  like  Mrs.  Rouge- 
mont  viewed  in  her  box  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  house ;  like 
many  an  object  which  we  pursue  in  life,  and  admire  before  we  have 
attained  it ;  Clavering  is  rather  prettier  at  a  distance  than  it  is  on  a 
closer  acquaintance.  The  town  so  cheerful  of  aspect  a  few  furlongs 
off,  looks  very  blank  and  dreary.  Except  on  market  days  there  is 
nobody  in  the  streets.  The  clack  of  a  pair  of  pattens  echoes  through 
half  the  place,  and  you  may  hear  the  creaking  of  the  rusty  old  ensign 
at  the  Clavering  Arms,  without  being  disturbed  by  any  other  noise. 
There  has  not  been  a  ball  in  the  Assembly  Rooms  since  the  Clavering 
volunteers  gave  one  to  their  Colonel,  the  old  Sir  Francis  Clavering; 
and  the  stables  which  once  held  a  great  part  of  that  brilliant,  but 
defunct  regiment,  are  now  cheerless  and  empty,  except  on  Thursdays, 
when  the  farmers  put  up  there,  and  their  tilted  carts  and  gigs  make  a 
feeble  show  of  liveliness  in  the  place,  or  on  Petty  Sessions,  when  the 
magistrates  attend  in  what  used  to  be  the  old  card-room. 

On  the  south  side  of  the  market  rises  up  the  church,  with  its  great 
grey  towers,  of  which  the  sun  illuminates  the  delicate  carving ;  deepen- 
'  ing  the  shadows  of  the  huge  buttresses,  and  gilding  the  glittering 
windows,  and  flaming  vanes.  The  image  of  the  Patroness  of  the 
Church  was  wrenched  out  of  the  porch  centuries  ago  :  such  of  the 
statues  of  saints  as  were  within  reach  of  stones  and  hammer  at  that 
period  of  pious  demolition,  are  maimed  and  headless,  and  of  those  who 
were  out  of  fire,  only  Doctor  Portman  knows  the  names  and  histor)-, 
for  his  curate,  Smirke,  is  not  much  of  an  antiquarian,  and  Mr.  Simcoe 
(husband  of  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Simcoe),  incumbent  and  architect  of 
the  Chapel  of  Ease  in  the  lower  town,  thinks  them  the  abomination  of 
desolation. 

The  Rectory  is  a  stout,  broad-shouldered  brick  house,  of  the  reign 
of  Anne.  It  communicates  with  the  church  and  market  by  different 
gates,  and  stands  at  the  opening  of  Yew-tree  Lane,  where  the  Grammar 

School  (Rev. Wapshot)   is  ;  Yew-tree  Cottage  (Miss  Flather) ; 

the  butcher's  slaughtering-house,  an  old  barn  or  brew-house  of  the 
Abbey  times,  and  the  Misses  Finucane's  establishment  for  young 
ladies.  The  two  schools  had  their  pews  in  the  loft  on  each  side  of  the 
organ,  until  the  Abbey  Church  getting  rather  empty  through  the 
falling  off  of  the  congregation,  who  were  inveigled  to  the  Heresy-shop 
in  the  lower  town,  the  Doctor  induced  the  Misses  Finucane  to  brin" 


PENDENNIS.  133 

their  pretty  little  flock  downstairs  ;  and  the  young  ladies'  bonnets 
make  a  tolerable  show  in  the  rather  vacant  aisles.  Nobody  is  in  the 
great  pew  of  the  Clavering  family,  excopt  the  statues  of  defunct 
baronets  and  their  ladies  :  there  is  Sir  Poyntz  Clavering,  Knight  and 
Baronet,  kneeling  in  a  square  beard  opposite  his  wife  in  a  ruff:  a  very 
fat  lady,  the  Dame  Rebecca  Clavering,  in  alto-relievo,  is  borne  up  to 
Heaven  by  two  little  blue-veined  angels,  who  seem  to  have  a  severe 
task — and  so  forth.  How  well  in  after  life  Pen  remembered  those 
effigies,  and  how  often  in  youth  he  scanned  them  as  the  Doctor  was 
grumbling  the  sermon  from  the  pulpit,  and  Smirke's  mild  head  and 
forehead  curl  peered  over  the  great  prayer-book  in  the  desk  ! 

The  Fairoaks  folks  were  constant  at  the  old  church ;  their  servants 
had  a  pew,  so  had  the  Doctor's,  so  had  Wapshot's,  and  those  of  the 
Misses  Finucane's  establishment,  three  maids  and  a  very  nice-looking 
young  man  in  a  livery.  The  Wapshot  family  were  numerous  and 
faithful.  Glanders  and  his  children  regularly  came  to  church :  so  did 
one  of  the  apothecaries.  Mrs.  Pybus  went,  turn  and  turn  about,  to  the 
Low  Town  Church,  and  to  the  Abbey  :  the  Charity  School  and  their 
families  of  course  came;  Wapshot's  boys  made  a  good  cheerful  noise, 
scuffling  with  their  feet  as  they  marched  into  church  and  up  the  organ- 
loft  stair,  and  blowing  their  noses  a  good  deal  during  the  service.  To 
be  brief,  the  congregation  looked  as  decent  as  might  be  in  these  bad 
time's.  The  Abbey  Church  was  furnished  with  a  magnificent  screen, 
and  many  hatchments  and  heraldic  tombstones.  The  Doctor  spent  a 
great  part  of  his  income  in  beautifying  his  darling  place ;  he  had 
endowed  it  with  a  superb  painted  window,  bought  in  the  Netherlands, 
and  an  organ  grand  enough  for  a  cathedral. 

But  in  spite  of  organ  and  window,  in  consequence  of  the  latter  very 
likely,  which  had  come  out  of  a  Papistical  place  of  worship  and  was 
blazoned  all  over  with  idolatry,  Clavering  New  Church  prospered 
scandalously  in  the  teeth  of  Orthodoxy;  and  many  of  the  Doctors 
congregation  deserted  to  Mr.  Simcoe  and  the  honourable  woman  his 
wife.  Their  efforts  had  thinned  the  very  Ebenezer  hard  by  them, 
which  building  before  Simcoe's  advent  used  to  be  so  full,  that  you 
could  see  the  backs  of  the  congregation  squeezing  out  of  the  arched 
windows  thereof.  Mr.  Simcoe's  tracts  fluttered  into  the  doors  of 
all  the  Doctor's  cottages,  and  were  taken  as  greedily  as  honest 
Mrs.  Portman's  soup,  with  the  quality  of  which  the  graceless  people 
found  fault.  With  the  folks  at  the  Ribbon  Factory  situated  by  the 
weir  on  the  Brawl  side,  and  round  which  the  Low  Town  had  grown, 
Orthodoxy  could  make  no  way  at  all.  Quiet  Miss  Mira  was  put  out 
of  court  by  impetuous  Mrs.  Simcoe  and  her  female  aides-de-camp. 
Ah,  it  was  a  hard  burthen  for  the  Doctor's  lady  to  bear,  to  behold  her 
husband's  congregation  dwindling  away  ;  to  give  the  precedence  on 


134  PENDENNIS. 

the  few  occasions  when  they  met  to  a  notorious  low-churchman's  wife 
wlio  was  the  daughter  of  an  Irish  Peer  ;  to  know  that  there  was  a 
party  in  Clavering,  their  own  town  of  Clavering,  on  which  her  Doctor 
spent  a  great  deal  more  than  his  professional  income,  who  held  him 
up  to  odium  because  he  played  a  rubber  at  whist ;  and  pronounced 
him  to  be  a  Heathen  because  he  went  to  the  play.  In  her  grief  she 
besought  him  to  give  up  the  play  and  the  rubber, — indeed  they  could 
scarcely  get  a  table  now,  so  dreadful  was  the  outcry  against  the 
sport, — but  the  Doctor  declared  that  he  would  do  what  he  thought  right, 
and  what  the  great  and  good  George  the  Third  did  (whose  Chaplain 
he  had  been) :  and  as  for  giving  up  Avhist  because  those  silly  folks 
cried  out  against  it,  he  would  play  dummy  to  the  end  of  his  days  with 
his  wife  and  Mira,  rather  than  yield  to  their  despicable  persecutions. 

Of  the  two  families,  owners  of  the  Factory  (which  had  spoiled  the 
Brawl  as  a  trout-stream  and  brought  all  the  mischief  into  the  town), 
the  senior  partner,  Mr.  Rolt,  went  to  Ebenezer ;  the  junior,  Mr.  Barker, 
to  the  New  Church.  In  a  word,  people  quarrelled  in  this  little  place 
a  great  deal  more  than  neighbours  do  in  London;  and  in  the  Book 
Club,  which  the  prudent  and  conciliating  Pendennis  had  set  up,  and 
which  ought  to  have  been  a  neutral  territor)-,  they  bickered  so  much 
that  nobody  scarcely  was  ever  seen  in  the  reading-room,  except 
Smirke,  who,  though  he  kept  up  a  faint  amity  with  the  Simcoe  faction, 
had  still  a  taste  for  magazines  and  light  worldly  literature ;  and  old 
Glanders,  whose  white  head  and  grizzly  moustache  might  be  seen  at 
the  window ;  and  of  course,  little  Mrs.  Pybus,  who  looked  at  every- 
body's letters  as  the  post  brought  them  (for  the  Cla\ering  Reading- 
Room,  as  every  one  knows,  used  to  be  held  at  Baker's  Librarj-, 
London  Street,  formerly  Hog  Lane),  and  read  ever}'  advertisement  in 
the  paper. 

It  may  be  imagined  how  great  a  sensation  was  created  in  this 
amiable  little  community  when  the  news  reached  it  of  Mr.  Pen's  love- 
passages  at  Chatteris.  It  was  carried  from  house  to  house,  and 
formed  the  subject  of  talk  at  high-church,  low-church,  and  no-church 
tables;  it  was  canvassed  by  the  Misses  Finucane  and  their  teachers, 
and  very  likely  debated  by  the  young  ladies  in  the  dormitories,  for 
what  we  know;  Wapshot's  big  boys  had  their  version  of  the  stor)- 
and  eyed  Pen  curiously  as  he  sate  in  his  pew  at  church,  or  raised  the 
finger  of  scorn  at  him  as  he  passed  through  Chatteris.  They  always 
hated  him  and  called  him  Lord  Pendennis,  because  he  did  not  wear 
corduroys  as  they  did,  and  rode  a  horse,  and  gave  himself  the  airs 
of  a  buck. 

And,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  it  was  Mrs.  Portman  herself  who 
was  the  chief  narrator  of  the  story  of  Pen's  loves.  Whatever  tales 
this  candid  woman  heard,  she  was  sure  to  impart  them  to  her  neigh- 


PENDENNIS.  135 

bours ;  and  after  she  had  been  put  into  possession  of  Pen's  secret  by 
the  little  scandal  at  Chatteris,  poor  Doctor  Portman  knew  that  it 
would  next  day  be  about  the  parish  of  which  he  was  the  Rector.  And 
so  indeed  it  was;  the  whole  society  there  had  the  legend — at  the 
news-room,  at  the  milliner's,  at  the  shoe-shop,  and  the  general  ware- 
house at  the  corner  of  the  market ;  at  Mrs.  Pybus's,  at  the  Glanders's, 
at  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Simcoe's  soiree,  at  the  Factory;  nay,  through 
the  mill  itself  the  tale  was  current  in  a  few  hours,  and  young  Arthur 
Pendennis's  madness  was  in  every  mouth. 

All  Doctor  Portman's  acquaintances  barked  out  upon  him  when 
he  walked  the  street  the  next  day.  The  poor  divine  knew  that  his 
Betsy  was  the  author  of  the  rumour,  and  groaned  in  spirit.  Well, 
well, — it  must  have  come  in  a  day  or  two,  and  it  was  as  well  that  the 
town  should  have  the  real  story.  What  the  Clavering  folks  thought 
of  Mrs.  Pendennis  for  spoiling  her  son,  and  of  that  precocious  young 
rascal  of  an  Arthur,  for  daring  to  propose  to  a  play-actress,  need  not 
be  told  here.  If  pride  exists  amongst  any  folks  in  our  country,  and 
assuredly  we  have  enough  of  it,  there  is  no  pride  more  deep-seated 
than  that  of  twopenny  old  gentlewomen  in  small  towns.  "  Gracious 
goodness,"  the  cry  was,  "  how  infatuated  the  mother  is  about  that  pert 
and  headstrong  boy  who  gives  himself  the  airs  of  a  lord  on  his  blood- 
horse,  and  for  whom  otir  society  is  not  good  enough,  and  who  would 
marry  an  odious  painted  actress  off  a  booth,  where  very  likely  he 
wants  to  rant  himself.  If  dear  good  Mr.  Pendennis  had  been  alive 
this  scandal  would  never  have  happened." 

No  more  it  would,  very  likely,  nor  should  we  have  been  occupied 
in  narrating  Pen's  history.  It  was  true  that  he  gave  himself  airs  to 
the  Clavering  folks.  Naturally  haughty  and  frank,  their  cackle  and 
small  talk  and  small  dignities  bored  him,  and  he  showed  a  contempt 
which  he  could  not  conceal.  The  Doctor  and  the  Curate  were  the 
only  people  Pen  cared  for  in  the  place — even  Mrs.  Portman  shared 
in  the  general  distrust  of  him,  and  of  his  mother,  the  widow,  who 
kept  herself  aloof  from  the  village  society,  and  was  sneered  at  accord- 
ingly, because  she  tried,  forsooth,  to  keep  her  head  up  with  the  great 
County  families.  She,  indeed !  Mrs.  Barker  at  the  Factory  has  four 
times  the  butcher's  meat  that  goes  up  to  Fairoaks,  with  all  their 
fine  airs. 

&c.  &;c.  &c.  :  let  the  reader  fill  up  these  details  according  to  his 
liking  and  experience  of  village  scandal.  They  will  suffice  to  show 
how  it  was  that  a  good  woman,  occupied  solely  in  doing  her  duty  to 
her  neighbour  and  her  children,  and  an  honest,  brave  lad,  impetuous, 
and  full  of  good,  and  wishing  well  to  every  mortal  alive,  found  enemies 
and  detractors  amongst  people  to  whom  they  were  superior,  and  to 
whom  they  had  never  done  anything  like  harm.     The  Clavering  curs 


136  PENDENNIS. 

were  yelping  all  round  the  house  of  Fairoaks,  and  delighted  to  pull 
Pen  down. 

Doctor  Portman  and  Smirke  were  both  cautious  of  informing  the 
v/idovv  of  the  constant  outbreak  of  calumny  which  was  pursuing  poor 
Pen,  though  Glanders,  who  was  a  friend  of  the  house,  kept  him  au 
courant.  It  may  be  imagined  what  his  indignation  was:  was  there 
any  man  in  the  village  whom  he  could  call  to  account  ?  Presently 
some  wags  began  to  chalk  up  "  Fotheringay  for  ever ! "  and  other  sar- 
castic allusions  to  late  transactions  at  P'airoaks'  gate.  Another  brought 
a  large  playbill  from  Chatteris,  and  wafered  it  there  one  night.  On 
one  occ^ision  Pen,  riding  through  the  Low  Town,  fancied  he  heard  the 
Factory  boys  jeer  him ;  and  finally,  going  through  the  Doctor's  gate 
into  the  churchyard,  where  some  of  Wapshot's  boys  were  lounging, 
the  biggest  of  them,  a  young  gentleman  about  twenty  years  of  age,  son 
of  a  neighbouring  small  Squire,  who  lived  in  the  doubtful  capacity  of 
parlour-boarder  with  Mr.  Wapshot,  flung  himself  into  a  theatrical 
attitude  near  a  newly-made  grave,  and  began  repeating  Hamlet's 
verses  over  Ophelia,  with  a  hideous  leer  at  Pen. 

The  young  fellow  was  so  enraged  that  he  rushed  at  Hobnell  Major 
with  a  shriek  ver>^  much  resembling  an  oath,  cut  him  furiously  across 
the  face  with  the  riding-whip  which  he  carried,  flung  it  away,  calling 
upon  the  cowardly  villain  to  defend  himself,  and  in  another  minute 
knocked  the  bewildered  young  ruffian  into  the  grave  which  was  just 
v/aiting  for  a  different  lodger. 

Then,  with  his  fists  clenched,  and  his  face  quivering  with  passion 
and  indignation,  he  roared  out  to  Mr.  HobneU's  gaping  companions, 
to  know  if  any  of  the  blackguards  would  come  on .'  But  they  held 
back  with  a  growl,  and  retreated,  as  Doctor  Portman  came  up  to  his 
wicket,  and  Mr.  Hobnell,  with  his  nose  and  lip  bleeding  piteously, 
emerged  from  the  grave. 

Pen,  looking  death  and  defiance  at  the  lads,  who  retreated  towards 
their  side  of  the  churchyard,  walked  back  again  through  the  Doctor's 
wicket,  and  was  interrogated  by  that  gentleman.  The  young  fellow 
was  so  agitated  he  could  scarcely  speak.  His  voice  broke  into  a  sob 
as  he  answered,  '"  The  —  coward  insulted  me,  sir,"  he  said ;  and  the 
Doctor  passed  over  the  oath,  and  respected  the  emotion  of  the  honest 
suffering  young  heart. 

Pendennis  the  elder,  who,  like  a  real  man  of  the  world,  had  a 
proper  and  constant  dread  of  the  opinion  of  his  neighbour,  was  pro- 
digiously annoyed  by  the  absurd  little  tempest  which  was  blowing  in 
Chatteris,  and  tossing  about  Master  Pen's  reputation.  Doctor  Portman 
and  Captain  Glanders  had  to  support  the  charges  of  the  whole  Chatteris 
society  against  the  young  reprobate,  who  was  looked  upon  as  a  monster 


PENDENNIS.  137 

of  crime.  Pen  did  not  say  anything  about  the  churchyard  s  ;uffle  at 
home ;  but  went  over  to  Baymouth,  and  took  counsel  with  his  friend 
Harry  Foker,  Esq.,  who  drove  over  his  drag  presently  to  the  Clavering 
Arms,  whence  he  sent  Stoopid  with  a  note  to  Thomas  Hobnell,  Esq., 
at  the  Rev.  J.  Wapshot's,  and  a  civil  message  to  ask  when  he  should 
wait  upon  that  gentleman. 

Stoopid  brought  back  word  that  the  note  had  been  opened  by 
Mr.  Hobnell,  and  read  to  half-a-dozen  of  the  big  boys,  on  whom  it 
seemed  to  make  a  great  impression  ;  and  that  after  consulting  together 
and  laughing,  Mr.  Hobnell  said  he  would  send  an  answer  "arterarter- 
noon  school,  which  the  bell  was  a  ringing :  and  Mr.  Wapshot  he  came 
out  in  his  Master's  gownd."  Stoopid  was  learned  in  academical  cos- 
tume, having  attended  Mr.  Foker  at  St.  Boniface. 

Mr.  Foker  went  out  to  see  the  curiosities  of  Clavering  meanwhile ; 
but  not  having  a  taste  for  architecture,  Doctor  Portman's  fine  church 
did  not  engage  his  attention  much,  and  he  pronounced  the  tower  to 
be  as  mouldy  as  an  old  Stilton  cheese.  He  walked  down  the  street 
and  looked  at  the  few  shops  there ;  he  saw  Captain  Glanders  at  the 
window  of  the  Reading-room,  and  having  taken  a  good  stare  at  that 
gentleman,  he  wagged  his  head  at  him  in  token  of  satisfaction ;  he 
inquired  the  price  of  meat  at  the  butcher's  with  an  air  of  the  greatest 
interest,  and  asked  "when  was  ne.xt  killing  day?"  he  flattened  his 
little  nose  against  Madam  Fribsby's  window  to  see  if  haply  there  was 
a  pretty  workwoman  in  her  premises  ;  but  there  was  no  face  more 
comely  than  the  doll's  or  dummy's  wearing  the  French  cap  in  the 
window,  only  that  of  Madame  Fribsby  herself,  dimly  visible  in  the 
parlour,  reading  a  novel.  That  object  was  not  of  sufficient  interest  to 
keep  Mr.  Foker  very  long  in  contemplation,  and  so  having  exhausted 
the  town  and  the  inn  stables,  in  which  there  were  no  cattle,  save  the 
single  old  pair  of  posters  that  earned  a  scanty  livelihood  by  transport- 
ing the  gentry  round  about  to  the  county  dinners,  Mr.  Foker  was 
giving  himself  up  to  ennui  entirely,  when  a  messenger  from  Mr.  Hob- 
nell was  at  length  announced. 

It  was  no  other  than  Mr.  Wapshot  himself,  who  came  with  an  air 
of  great  indignation,  and  holding  Pen's  missive  in  his  hand,  asked 
Mr.  Foker  "  how  dared  he  bring  such  an  unchristian  message  as  a 
challenge  to  a  boy  of  his  school .''  " 

In  fact  Pen  had  written  a  note  to  his  adversary  of  the  day  before, 
telling  him  that  if  after  the  chastisement  which  his  insolence  richly 
deserved,  he  felt  inclined  to  ask  the  reparation  which  was  usually 
given  amongst  gentlemen,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis's  friend,  Mr.  Henry 
Foker,  was  empowered  to  make  any  arrangements  for  the  satisfaction 
of  Mr.  Hobnell. 

"And  so  he  sent  _>'^«  with  the  answer — did  he,  sir.?"  Mr.  Foker 


138  PENDENNIS. 

said,  surveying  the  Schoolmaster  in  his  black  coat  and  clerical 
costume. 

"  If  he  had  accepted  this  wicked  challenge,  I  should  have  flogged 
him,"  Mr.  Wapshot  said,  and  gave  Mr.  Foker  a  glance  which  seemed 
to  say,  "  and  I  should  like  very  much  to  flog  you  too." 

"  Uncommon  kind  of  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  said  Pen's  emissary.  "  I 
told  my  principal  that  I  didn't  think  the  other  man  would  fight,"  he 
continued  with  a  great  air  of  dignity.  "  He  prefers  being  flogged  to 
fighting,  sir,  I  dare  say.  May  I  offer  you  any  refreshment,  Mr.  —  ? 
I  haven't  the  advantage  of  your  name." 

"  My  name  is  Wapshot,  sir,  and  I  am  Master  of  the  Grammai 
School  of  this  town,  sir,"  cried  the  other :  "  and  I  want  no  refresh- 
ment, sir,  I  thank  you,  and  have  no  desire  to  make  your  acquaint- 
ance, sir." 

"  I  didn't  seek  yours,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Mr.  Foker.  "In  aff'airs 
of  this  sort,  you  see,  I  think  it  is  a  pity  that  the  clergy  should  be  called 
in,  but  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes,  sir." 

"  I  think  it's  a  pity  that  boys  should  talk  about  committing  murder, 
sir,  as  lightly  as  you  do,"  roared  the  Schoolmaster;  "and  if  I  had  you 
in  my  school — " 

"  I  dare  say  you  would  teach  me  better,  sir,"  Mr.  Foker  said,  with 
a  bow.  "  Thank  you,  sir.  I've  finished  my  education,  sir,  and  ain't 
a-going  back  to  school,  sir — when  I  do,  I'll  remember  your  kind  off"er, 
sir.  John,  show  this  gentleman  downstairs — and,  of  course,  as  Mr. 
Hobnell  likes  being  thrashed,  we  can  have  no  objection,  sir,  and  we 
shall  be  very  happy  to  accommodate  him,  whenever  he  comes  our 
waj'." 

And  with  this,  the  young  fellow  bowed  the  elder  gentleman  out  of 
the  room,  and  sate  down  and  wrote  a  note  off"  to  Pen,  in  which  he 
informed  the  latter,  that  Mr.  Hobnell  was  not  disposed  to  fight,  and 
proposed  to  put  up  with  the  caning  which  Pen  had  administered  to 
him. 


I 


PENDENNIS.  139 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

WHICH   CONCLUDES  THE   FIRST   PART   OF  THIS   HISTORY. 

PEN'S  conduct  in  this  business  of  course  was  soon  made  public, 
and  angered  his  friend  Doctor  Portman  not  a  httle ;  while  it 
only  amused  Major  Pendennis.  As  for  the  good  Mrs.  Pendennis,  she 
was  almost  distracted  when  she  heard  of  the  squabble,  and  of  Pen's 
unchristian  behaviour.  All  sorts  of  wretchedness,  discomfort,  crime, 
annoyance,  seemed  to  come  out  of  this  transaction  in  which  the  luck- 
less boy  had  engaged :  and  she  longed  more  than  ever  to  see  him  out 
of  Chatteris  for  a  while, — anywhere  removed  from  the  woman  who 
had  brought  him  into  so  much  trouble. 

Pen,  when  remonstrated  with  by  this  fond  parent,  and  angrily 
rebuked  by  the  Doctor  for  his  violence  and  ferocious  intentions,  took 
the  matter  aje  grand  se'rieux,  with  the  happy  conceit  and  gravity  of 
youth :  said  that  he  would  permit  no  man  to  insult  him  upon  this 
head  without  vindicating  his  own  honour,  and  appealing,  asked 
whether  he  could  have  acted  otherwise  as  a  gentleman,  than  as  he 
did  in  resenting  the  outrage  offered  to  him,  and  in  offering  satisfaction 
to  the  person  chastised  ? 

"  Vous  allez  trop  vite,  rny  good  sir,"  said  the  uncle,  rather  puzzled, 
for  he  had  been  indoctrinating  his  nephew  with  some  of  his  own 
notions  upon  the  pcint  of  honour— old-world  notions  savouring  of  the 
camp  and  pistol  a  great  deal  more  than  our  soberer  opinions  of  the 
present  day — "between  men  of  the  world  I  don't  say;  but  between 
two  schoolboys,  this  sort  of  thing  is  ridiculous,  my  dear  boy — perfectly 
ridiculous." 

"  It  is  extremely  wicked,  and  unlike  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis, with  tears  in  her  eyes ;  and  bewildered  with  the  obstinacy 
of  the  boy. 

Pen  kissed  her,  and  said  with  great  pomposity,  "  Women,  dear 
mother,  don't  understand  these  matters— I  put  myself  into  Foker's 
hands — I  had  no  other  course  to  pursue." 

Major  Pendennis  grinned  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  youijg 
ones  were  certainly  making  great  progress,  he  thought.  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis declared  that  that  Foker  was  a  wicked  horrid  little  wretch,  and 
was  sure  that  he  would  lead  her  dear  boy  into  mischief,  if  Pen  went  to 


I40  PENDEXNIS. 

the  same  college  with  him.  "  I  have  a  great  mind  not  to  let  him  go 
at  all,"  she  said :  and  only  that  she  remembered  that  the  lad's  father 
had  always  destined  him  for  the  College  in  which  he  had  had  his  own 
brief  education,  very  likely  the  fond  mother  would  have  put  a  veto 
upon  his  going  to  the  University. 

That  he  was  to  go,  and  at  the  next  October  term,  had  been 
arranged  between  all  the  authorities  who  presided  over  the  lad's 
welfare.  Foker  had  promised  to  introduce  him  to  the  right  set ;  and 
Major  Pendennis  laid  great  store  upon  Pen's  introduction  into  College 
life  and  society  by  this  admirable  young  gentleman.  "  Mr.  Foker 
knows  the  very  best  young  men  now  at  the  University,"  the  Major 
said,  "and  Pen  will  form  acquaintances  there  who  will  be  of  the 
greatest  advantage  through  life  to  him.  The  young  Marquis  of  Plin- 
limmon  is  there,  eldest  son  of  the  Duke  of  St.  David's — Lord  Magnus 
Charters  is  there.  Lord  Runnymede's  son ;  and'  a  first  cousin  of 
Mr.  Foker,  (Lady  Runnymede,  my  dear,  was  Lady  Agatha  Milton, 
you  of  course  remember,)  Lady  Agnes  will  certainly  invite  him  to 
Logwood ;  and  far  from  being  alarmed  at  his  intimacy  with  her  son, 
who  is  a  singular  and  humorous,  but  most  prudent  and  amiable  young 
man,  to  whom,  I  am  sure,  we  are  under  every  obligation  for  his 
admirable  conduct  in  the  affair  of  the  Fotheringay  marriage,  I  look 
upon  it  as  one  of  the  very  luckiest  things  which  could  have  happened 
to  Pen,  that  he  should  have  formed  an  intimacy  with  this  most 
amusing  young  gentleman." 

Helen  sighed,  she  supposed  the  Major  knew  best.  Mr.  Foker  had 
been  very  kind  in  the  wretched  business  with  Miss  Costigan,  certainly, 
and  she  was  grateful  to  him.  But  she  could  not  feel  otherwise  than  a 
dim  presentiment  of  evil ;  and  all  these  quarrels,  and  riots,  and  world- 
liness,  scared  her  about  the  fate  of  her  boy. 

Doctor  Portman  was  decidedly  of  opinion  that  Pen  should  go  to 
College.  He  hoped  the  lad  would  read,  and  have  a  moderate  indul- 
gence of  the  best  society  too.  He  was  of  opinion  that  Pen  would 
distinguish  himself:  Smirke  spoke  very  highly  of  his  proficiency  :  the 
Doctor  himself  had  heard  him  construe,  and  thought  he  acquitted 
himself  remarkably  well.  That  he  should  go  out  of  Chatteris  was  a 
great  point  at  any  rate ;  and  Pen,  who  was  distracted  from  his  private 
grief  by  the  various  rows  and  troubles  which  had  risen  round  about 
him,  gloomily  said  he  would  obey. 

There  were  assizes,  races,  and  the  entertainments  and  the  flu.x  of 
company  consequent  upon  them,  at  Chatteris,  during  a  part  of  the 
months  of  August  and  September,  and  Miss  Fotheringay  still  continued 
to  act,  and  take  farewell  of  the  audiences  at  the  Chatteris  Theatre 
during  that  time.  Nobody  seemed  to  be  particularly  afiected  by  her 
presence,  or  her  announced  departure,  except  those  persons  whom  we 


PENDENNIS.  141 

have  named;  nor  could  the  pohte  county  folks,  who  had  houses  in 
London,  and  very  likely  admired  the  Fotheringay  prodigiously  in  the 
capital,  when  they  had  been  taught  to  do  so  by  the  Fashion  which  set 
in  in  her  favour,  find  anything  remarkable  in  the  actress  performing  on 
the  little  Chatteris  boards.  Many  a  genius  and  many  a  quack,  for  that 
matter,  has  met  with  a  similar  fate  before  and  since  Miss  Costigan's 
time.  This  honest  woman  meanwhile  bore  up  against  the  public 
neglect,  and  any  other  crosses  or  vexations  which  she  might  have  in 
life,  with  her  usual  equanimity ;  and  ate,  drank,  acted,  slept,  with  that 
regularity  and  comfort  which  belongs  to  people  of  her  temperament. 
What  a  deal  of  grief,  care,  and  other  harmful  excitement  does  a 
healthy  dulness  and  cheerful  insensibility  avoid !  Nor  do  I  mean  to 
say  that  Virtue  is  not  Virtue  because  it  is  never  tempted  to  go  astray; 
only  that  dulness  is  a  much  finer  gift  than  we  give  it  credit  for  being, 
and  that  some  people  are  very  lucky  whom  Nature  has  endowed  with 
a  good  store  of  that  great  anodyne. 

Pen  used  to  go  drearily  in  and  out  from  the  play  at  Chatteris  during 
this  season,  and  pretty  much  according  to  his  fancy.  His  proceedings 
tortured  his  mother  not  a  little,  and  her  anxiety  would  have  led  her 
often  to  interfere,  had  not  the  Major  constantly  checked,  and  at  the 
same  time  encouraged  her ;  for  the  wily  man  of  the  world  fancied  he 
saw  that  a  favourable  turn  had  occurred  in  Pen's  malady.  It  was  the 
violent  efflux  of  versification,  among  other  symptoms,  which  gave  Pen's 
guardian  and  physician  satisfaction.  He  might  be  heard  spouting 
verses  in  the  shrubbery  walks,  or  muttering  them  between  his  teeth  as 
he  sat  with  the  home  party  of  evenings.  One  day  prowling  about  the 
house  in  Pen's  absence,  the  Major  found  a  great  book  full  of  verses  in 
the  lad's  study.  They  were  in  English,  and  in  Latin ;  quotations  from 
the  classic  authors  were  given  in  the  scholastic  manner  in  the  fool- 
notes.  He  can't  be  very  bad,  wisely  thought  the  Pall  Mall  Philosopher  : 
and  he  made  Pen's  mother  remark  (not,  perhaps,  without  a  secret  feel- 
ing of  disappointment,  for  she  loved  romance  like  other  soft  women), 
that  the  young  gentleman  during  the  last  fortnight  came  home  quite 
hungry  to  dinner  at  night,  and  also  showed  a  very  decent  appetite  at 
the  breakfast  table  in  the  morning.  "  Gad,  I  wish  I  could,"  said  the 
Major,  thinking  ruefully  of  his  dinner  pills.  *'  The  boy  begins  to  sleep 
well,  depend  upon  that."     It  was  cruel,  but  it  was  true. 

Having  no  other  soul  to  confide  in,  the  lad's  friendship  for  the 
Curate  redoubled,  or  rather,  he  was  never  tired  of  having  Smirke  for 
a  listener  on  that  one  subject.  What  is  a  lover  without  a  confidant  ? 
Pen  employed  Mr.  Smirke,  as  Corydon  does  the  elm-tree,  to  cut  out 
his  mistress's  name  upon.  He  made  him  echo  with  the  name  of  the 
beautiful  Amaryllis.  When  men  have  left  off  playing  the  tune,  they  do 
not  care  much  for  the  pipe:  but  Pen  thought  he  had  a  great  friendship 


142  PENDENNIS. 

for  Smirke,  because  he  could  sigh  out  his  loves  and  griefs  into  his 
tutor's  ears :  and  Smirke  had  his  ov-n  reasons  for  always  being  ready 
at  the  lad's  call. 

The  poor  Curate  was  naturally  very  much  dismayed  at  the  con- 
templated departure  of  his  pupil.  When  Arthur  should  go,  Smirke's 
occupation  and  delight  would  go  too.  What  pretext  could  he  find  for 
a  daily  visit  to  Fairoaks,  and  that  kind  word  or  glance  from  the  lady 
there,  which  was  as  necessary  to  the  Curate  as  the  frugal  dinner  which 
Madame  Fribsby  served  him  ?  Arthur  gone,  he  would  only  be  allowed 
to  make  visits  like  any  other  acquaintance:  little  Laura  could  not 
accommodate  him  by  learning  the  Catechism  more  than  once  a  week : 
he  had  curled  himself  like  ivy  round  Fairoaks  :  he  pined  at  the  thought 
that  he  must  lose  his  hold  of  the  place.  Should  he  speak  his  mind  and 
go  down  on  his  knees  to  the  widow  ?  He  thought  over  any  indica- 
tions in  her  behaviour  which  flattered  his  hopes.  She  had  praised  his 
sermon  three  weeks  before :  she  had  thanked  him  exceedingly  for  his 
present  of  a  melon,  for  a  small  dinner  party  which  Mrs.  Pendennis 
gave  :  she  said  she  should  always  be  grateful  to  him  for  his  kindness 
to  Arthur:  and  when  he  declared  that  there  were  no  bounds  to  his 
love  and  affection  for  that  dear  boy,  she  had  certainly  replied  in  a 
romantic  manner,  indicating  her  own  strong  gratitude  and  regard  to 
all  her  son's  friends.  Should  he  speak  out  ? — or  should  he  delay  ?  If 
he  spoke  and  she  refused  him,  it  was  awful  to  think  that  the  gate  of 
Fairoaks  might  be  shut  upon  him  for  ever — and  within  that  door  lay 
all  the  world  for  Mr.  Smirke. 

Thus,  oh  friendly  readers,  we  see  how  every  man  in  the  world  has 
his  own  private  griefs  and  business,  by  which  he  is  more  cast  down  or 
occupied  than  by  the  affairs  or  sorrows  of  any  other  person.  Wbile 
Mrs.  Pendennis  is  disquieting  herself  about  losing  her  son,  and  that 
anxious  hold  she  has  had  of  him,  as  long  as  he  has  remained  in  the 
mother's  nest,  whence  he  is  about  to  take  flight  into  the  great  world 
beyond — while  the  Majors  great  soul  chafes  and  frets,  inwardly  vexed 
as  he  thinks  what  great  parties  are  going  on  in  London,  and  that  he 
might  be  sunning  himself  in  the  glances  of  Dukes  and  Duchesses,  but 
for  those  cursed  affairs  which  keep  him  in  a  wretched  little  country 
hole — while  Pen  is  tossing  between  his  passion  and  a  more  agreeable 
sensation,  unacknowledged  yet,  but  swaying  him  considerably,  namely, 
his  longing  to  see  the  world — Mr.  Smirke  has  a  private  care  watching 
at  his  bed-side,  and  sitting  behind  him  on  his  pony ;  and  is  no  more 
satisfied  than  the  rest  of  us.  How  lonely  we  are  in  the  world !  how 
selfish  and  secret,  ever)body  !  You  and  your  wife  have  pressed  the 
same  pillow  for  forty  years  and  fancy  yourselves  united. — Psha,  does 
she  cry  out  when  you  have  the  gout,  or  do  you  lie  awake  when  she  has 
the  toothache .''      Your  artless  daughter,  seemingly  all  innocence  and 


PENDENNIS.  143 

devoted  to  her  mamma  and  her  piano-lesson,  is  thinking  of  neither, 
but  of  the  young  Lieutenant  with  whom  she  danced  at  the  last  ball — 
the  honest  frank  boy  just  returned  from  school  is  secretly  speculating 
upon  the  money  you  will  give  him,  and  the  debts  he  owes  the  tart-man. 
The  old  grandmother  crooning  in  the  corner  and  bound  to  another 
world  within  a  few  months,  has  some  business  or  cares  which  are 
quite  private  and  her  own — very  likely  she  is  thinking  of  fifty  years 
back,  and  that  night  when  she  made  such  an  impression,  and  danced 
a  cotillon  with  the  Captain  before  your  father  proposed  for  her  :  or, 
what  a  silly  little  over-rated  creature  your  wife  is,  and  how  absurdly  you 
are  infatuated  about  her — and,  as  for  your  wife — O  philosophic  reader, 
answer  and  say,^Do  you  tell  /ler  all  ?  Ah,  sir — a  distinct  universe 
walks  about  under  your  hat  and  under  mine — all  things  in  nature  are 
different  to  each — the  woman  we  look  at  has  not  the  same  features, 
the  dish  we  eat  from  has  not  the  same  taste  to  the  one  and  the  other 
— you  and  I  are  but  a  pair  of  infinite  isolations,  with  some  fellow- 
islands  a  little  more  or  less  near  to  us.  Let  us  return,  however,  to  the 
solitary  Smirke. 

Smirke  had  one  confidante  for  his  passion — that  most  injudicious 
woman,  Madame  Fribsby.  How  she  became  Madame  Fribsby,  no- 
body knows :  she  had  left  Clavering  to  go  to  a  milliner's  in  London  as 
Miss  Fribsby^she  pretended  that  she  had  got  the  rank  in  Paris  during 
her  residence  in  that  city.  But  how  could  the  French  king,  were  he 
ever  so  much  disposed,  give  her  any  such  title  ?  We  shall  not  inquire 
into  this  mystery,  however.  Suffice  to  say,  she  went  away  from  home 
a  bouncing  young  lass ;  she  returned  a  rather  elderly  character,  with  a 
Madonna  front  and  a  melancholy  countenance  —  bought  the  late 
Mrs.  Harbottle's  business  for  a  song — took  her  elderly  mother  to  live 
with  her;  was  very  good  to  the  poor,  was  constant  at  church,  and  had 
the  best  of  characters.  But  there  was  no  one  in  all  Clavering,  not 
Mrs.  Portman  herself,  who  read  so  many  novels  as  Madame  Fribsby. 
She  had  plenty  of  time  for  this  amusement,  for,  in  truth,  very  few 
people  besides  the  folks  at  the  Rectory  and  Fairoaks  employed  her ; 
and  by  a  perpetual  perusal  of  such  works  (which  were  by  no  means 
so  moral  or  edifying  in  the  days  of  which  we  write,  as  they  are  at 
present),  she  had  got  to  be  so  absurdly  sentimental,  that  in  her  eyes 
life  was  nothing  but  an  immense  love-match  ;  and  she  never  could 
see  two  people  together,  but  she  fancied  they  were  dying  for  one 
another. 

On  the  day  after  Mrs.  Pendennis's  visit  to  the  Curate,  which  we 
have  recorded  many  pages  back,  Madame  Fribsby  settled  in  her  mind 
that  Mr.  Smirke  must  be  in  love  with  the  widow,  and  did  everything 
in  her  power  to  encourage  this  passion  on  both  sides.  Mrs.  Pendennis 
she  very  seldom  saw,  indeed,  except  in  public,  and  in  her  pew  at 


144  PENDENNIS. 

church.  That  lady  had  very  little  need  of  millinery,  or  made  most 
of  her  own  dresses  and  caps ;  but  on  the  rare  occasions  when  Madame 
Fribsby  received  visits  from  Mrs.  Pendennis,  or  paid  her  respects  at 
Fairoaks,  she  never  failed  to  entertain  the  widow  with  praises  of  the 
Curate,  pointing  out  what  an  angelical  man  he  was,  how  gentle,  how 
studious,  how  lonely ;  and  she  would  wonder  that  no  lady  would  take 
pity  upon  him. 

Helen  laughed  at  these  sentimental  remarks,  and  wondered  that 
Madame  herself  did  not  compassionate  her  lodger,  and  console  him. 
Madame  Fribsby  shook  her  Madonna  front.  "  Along  cure  a  boco 
soiiffare"  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the  part  she  designated  as  her 
cure.  '■'■]  I  est  more  en  Espang,  Madame"  she  said  with  a  sigh.  She 
was  proud  of  her  intimacy  with  the  French  language,  and  spoke  it 
with  more  volubility  than  correctness.  Mrs.  Pendennis  did  not  care 
to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  this  wounded  heart:  except  to  her  few 
intimates  she  was  a  reserved,  and  it  may  be  a  %'ery  proud  woman;  she 
looked  upon  her  son's  tutor  merely  as  an  attendant  on  that  young 
Prince,  to  be  treated  with  respect  as  a  clergyman  certainly,  but  with 
proper  dignity  as  a  dependant  on  the  house  of  Pendennis.  Nor  were 
Madame's  constant  allusions  to  the  Curate  particularly  agreeable  to 
her.  It  required  a  very  ingenious  sentimental  turn  indeed  to  find  out 
that  the  widow  had  a  secret  regard  for  Mr.  Smirke,  to  which  pernicious 
error  however  Madame  Fribsby  persisted  in  holding. 

Her  lodger  was  very  much  more  willing  to  talk  on  this  subject  with 
his  soft-hearted  landlady.  Ever)-  time  after  that  she  praised  the  Curate 
to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  she  came  away  from  the  latter  with  the  notion  that 
the  widow  herself  had  been  praising  him.  "  Etre  soul  au  monde  est 
bien  ouneeyotig"  she  would  say,  glancing  up  at  a  print  of  a  French 
carbineer  in  a  green  coat  and  brass  cuirass  which  decorated  her 
apartment — "  Depend  upon  it  when  Master  Pendennis  goes  to  College, 
his  Ma  will  find  herself  ver>'  lonely.  She  is  quite  young  yet. — You 
wouldn't  suppose  her  to  be  five-and-twenty.  Monsieur  le  Cury,  song 
cure  est  touchy— j^ong  suis  sure — yeconny  cela  biatig — Ally,  Monsieur 
Smirke." 

He  softly  blushed ;  he  sighed ;  he  hoped ;  he  feared  ;  he  doubted  ; 
he  sometimes  yielded  to  the  delightful  idea — his  pleasure  was  to  sit 
in  Madame  Fribsby's  apartment,  and  talk  upon  the  subject,  where, 
as  the  greater  part  of  the  conversation  was  carried  on  in  French  by 
the  Milliner,  and  her  old  mother  was  deaf,  that  retired  old  individual 
(who  had  once  been  a  housekeeper,  wife  and  widow  of  a  butler 
in  the  Clavering  family)  could  understand  scarce  one  syllable  of  their 
talk. 

When  Major  Pendennis  announced  to  his  nephew's  tutor  that  the 
young  fellow  would  go  to  College  in  October,  and  that  Mr.  Smirl;os 


PENDENNIS.  145 

\  aluable  services  would  no  longer  be  needful  to  his  pupil,  for  which 
services  the  Major,  who  spoke  as  grandly  as  a  lord,  professed  himself 
exceedingly  grateful,  and  besought  Mr.  Smirke  to  command  his 
interest  in  any  way — the  Curate  felt  that  the  critical  moment  was 
come  for  him,  and  was  racked  and  tortured  by  those  severe  pangs 
which  the  occasion  warranted. 

And  now  that  Arthur  was  going  away,  Helen's  heart  was  rather 
softened  towards  the  Curate,  from  whom,  perhaps  divining  his  inten- 
tions, she  had  shrunk  hitherto:  she  bethought  her  how  very  polite 
Mr.  Smirke  had  been;  how  he  had  gone  on  messages  for  her;  how  he 
had  brought  books  and  copied  music ;  how  he  had  taught  Laura  so 
many  things,  and  given  her  so  many  kind  presents.  Her  heart  smote 
her  on  account  of  her  ingratitude  towards  the  Curate : — so  much  so, 
that  one  afternoon  when  he  came  down  from  study  with  Pen,  and  was 
hankering  about  the  hall  previous  to  his  departure,  she  went  out  and 
shook  hands  with  him  with  rather  a  blushing  face,  and  begged  him  to 
come  into  her  drawing-room,  where  she  said  they  now  never  saw  him. 
And  as  there  was  to  be  rather  a  good  dinner  that  day,  she  invited 
Mr.  Smirke  to  partake  of  it ;  and  we  may  be  sure  that  he  was  too 
happy  to  accept  such  a  delightful  summons. 

Helen  was  exceedingly  kind  and  gracious  to  Mr.  Smirke  during 
dinner,  redoubling  her  attentions,  perhaps  because  Major  Pendennis 
was  very  high  and  reserved  with  his  nephew's  tutor.  When  Pen- 
dennis asked  Smirke  to  drink  wine,  he  addressed  him  as  if  he  was  a 
sovereign  speaking  to  a  petty  retainer,  in  a  manner  so  condescending, 
that  even  Pen  laughed  at  it,  although  quite  ready,  for  his  part,  to  be 
as  conceited  as  most  young  men  are. 

But  Smirke  did  not  care  for  the  impertinences  of  the  Major  so 
long  as  he  had  his  hostess's  kind  behaviour ;  and  he  passed  a  delight- 
ful time  by  her  side  at  table,  exerting  all  his  powers  of  conversation  to 
please  her,  talking  in  a  manner  both  clerical  and  worldly,  about  the 
fancy  Bazaar,  and  the  Great  Missionary  Meeting,  about  the  last  new 
novel,  and  the  Bishop's  excellent  sermon  —  about  the  fashionable 
parties  in  London,  an  account  of  which  he  read  in  the  newspapers — 
in  fine,  he  neglected  no  art,  by  which  a  College  divine  who  has  both 
sprightly  and  serious  talents,  a  taste  for  the  genteel,  an  irreproachable 
conduct,  and  a  susceptible  heart,  will  try  and  make  himself  agreeable 
to  the  person  on  whom  he  has  fixed  his  affections. 

Major  Pendennis  came  yawning  out  of  the  dining-room  very  soon 
after  his  sister  and  httle  Laura  had  left  the  apartment. 

Now  Arthur,  flushed  with  a  good  deal  of  pride  at  the  privilege  of 
having  the  keys  of  the  cellar,  and  remembering  that  a  very  few  more 
dinners  would  probably  take  place  which  he  and  his  dear  friend 
Smirke  could  share,  had  brought  up  a  liberal  supply  of  claret  for  the 

10 


146  PENDENNIS. 

company's  drinking,  and  when  the  elders  with  httle  Laura  left,  he  and 
the  Curate  began  to  pass  the  wine  very  freely. 

One  bottle  speedily  yielded  up  the  ghost,  another  shed  more  than 
half  its  blood,  before  the  two  topers  had  been  much  more  than  half 
an  hour  together — Pen,  with  a  hollow  laugh  and  voice,  had  drunk  off 
one  bumper  to  the  falsehood  of  women,  and  had  said  sardonically,  that 
wine  at  any  rate  was  a  mistress  who  never  deceived,  and  was  sure  to 
give  a  man  a  welcome. 

Smirke  gently  said  that  he  knew  for  his  part  some  women  who  were 
all  truth  and  tenderness ;  and  casting  up  his  eyes  towards  the  ceiling, 
and  heaving  a  sigh  as  if  evoking  some  being  dear  and  unmentionable, 
he  took  up  his  glass  and  drained  it,  and  the  rosy  liquor  began  to  suffuse 
his  face. 

Pen  trolled  over  some  verses  he  had  been  making  that  morning, 
in  which  he  informed  himself  that  the  woman  who  had  slighted  his 
passion  could  not  be  worthy  to  win  it :  that  he  was  awaking  from 
love's  mad  fever,  and,  of  course,  under  these  circumstances,  proceeded 
to  leave  her,  and  to  quit  a  heartless  deceiver :  that  a  name  which  had 
one  day  been  famous  in  the  land,  might  again  be  heard  in  it :  and, 
that  though  he  never  should  be  the  happy  and  careless  boy  he  was 
but  a  few  months  since,  or  his  heart  be  what  it  had  been  ere  passion 
had  filled  it  and  grief  had  well-nigh  killed  it ;  that  though  to  him 
personally  death  was  as  welcome  as  life,  and  that  he  would  not  hesitate 
to  part  with  the  latter,  but  for  the  love  of  one  kind  being  whose  happi- 
ness depended  on  his  own, — yet  he  hoped  to  show  he  was  a  man 
worthy  of  his  race,  and  that  one  day  the  false  one  should  be  brought 
to  know  how  great  was  the  treasure  and  noble  the  heart  which  she  had 
flung  away. 

Pen,  we  say,  who  was  a  very  excitable  person,  rolled  out  these 
verses  in  his  rich  sweet  voice,  which  trembled  with  emotion  whilst  our 
young  poet  spoke.  He  had  a  trick  of  blushing  wheji  in  this  excited 
state,  and  his  large  and  honest  grey  eyes  also  exhibited  proofs  of  a 
sensibility  so  genuine,  hearty,  and  manly,  that  Miss  Costigan,  if  she 
had  a  heart,  must  needs  have  softened  toward  him ;  and  very  likely 
she  was,  as  he  said,  altogether  unworthy  of  the  affection  which  he 
lavished  upon  her. 

The  sentimental  Smirke  was  caught  by  the  emotion  which  agitated 
his  young  friend.  He  grasped  Pen's  hand  over  the  dessert  dishes  and 
wine  glasses.  He  said  the  verses  were  beautiful :  that  Pen  was  a  poet, 
a  great  poet,  and  likely  by  Heaven's  permission  to  run  a  great  career 
in  the  world.  "  Go  on  and  prosper,  dear  Arthur,"  he  cried :  "  the 
wounds  under  which  at  present  you  suffer  are  only  temporary,  and  the 
very  grief  you  endure  will  cleanse  and  strengthen  your  heart.  I  have 
always  prophesied  the  greatest  and  brightest  things  of  you,  as  soon  as 


PENDENNIS.  147 

you  have  corrected  some  failings  and  weaknesses  of  character,  which 
at  present  belong  to  you.  But  you  will  get  over  these,  my  boy,  you 
will  get  over  these ;  and  when  you  are  famous  and  celebrated,  as 
I  know  you  will  be,  will  you  remember  your  old  tutor  and  the  happy 
early  days  of  your  youth  ? " 

Pen  swore  he  would:  with  another  shake  of  the  hand  across  the 
glasses  and  apricots.  "  I  shall  never  forget  how  kind  you  have  been 
to  me,  Smirke,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  you.     You  are  my  best  friend." 

"  Am  I  really,  Arthur  ? "  said  Smirke,  looking  through  his  spec- 
tacles ;  and  his  heart  began  to  beat  so  that  he  thought  Pen  must 
almost  hear  it  throbbing. 

"  My  best  friend,  my  friend  for  ever"  Pen  said.  "  God  bless  you, 
old  boy,"  and  he  drank  up  the  last  glass  of  the  second  bottle  of  the 
famous  wine  which  his  father  had  laid  in,  which  his  uncle  had  bought, 
which  Lord  Levant  had  imported,  and  which  now,  like  a  slave  indif- 
ferent, was  ministering  pleasure  to  its  present  owner,  and  giving  its 
young  master  delectation. 

"  We'll  have  another  bottle,  old  boy,"  Pen  said,  "  by  Jove  we  will. 
Hurray ! — claret  goes  for  nothing.  My  uncle  was  telling  me  that  he 
saw  Sheridan  drink  five  bottles  at  Brookes's,  besides  a  bottle  of  Mara- 
schino. This  is  some  of  the  finest  wine  in  England,  he  says.  So  it  is 
by  Jove.  There's  nothing  like  it.  Nunc  vino  pellite  curas — eras 
ingens  iterabimus  ceq — fill  your  glass,  Old  Smirke,  a  hogshead  of  it 
won't  do  you  any  harm."  And  Mr.  Pen  began  to  sing  the  drinking 
song  out  of  Der  Freischutz.  The  dining-room  windows  were  open, 
and  his  mother  was  softly  pacing  on  the  lawn  outside,  while  little 
Laura  was  looking  at  the  sunset.  The  sweet  fresh  notes  of  the  boy's 
voice  came  to  the  widow.     It  cheered  her  kind  heart  to  hear  him  sing. 

"  You — you  are  taking  too  much  wine,  Arthur,"  Mr.  Smirke  said 
softly — "  you  are  exciting  yourself" 

"  No,"  said  Pen,  "  women  give  headaches,  but  this  don't.  Fill 
your  glass,  old  fellow,  and  let's  drink — I  say,  Smirke,  my  boy — let's 
drink  to  her — your  her,  I  mean,  not  mine,  for  whom  I  swear  PU 
care  no  more — no,  not  a  penny — no,  not  a  fig — no,  not  a  glass  of 
wine.  Tell  us  about  the  lady,  Smirke ;  Pve  often  seen  you  sighing 
about  her." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Smirke — and  his  beautiful  cambric  shirt  front  and 
glistening  studs  heaved  with  the  emotion  which  agitated  his  gentle 
and  suffering  bosom. 

"  Oh — what  a  sigh  ! "  Pen  cried,  growing  very  hilarious  :  "  fill,  my 
boy,  and  drink  the  toast :  you  can't  refuse  a  toast,  no  gentleman  refuses 
a  toast.  Here's  her  health,  and  good  luck  to  you,  and  may  she  soon 
be  Mrs.  Smirke." 


148  PENDEXXIS. 

"Do  you  say  so?"  Smirke  said,  all  of  a  tremble.  "  Do  you  really 
say  so,  Arthur  ? " 

"  Say  so;  of  course,  I  say  so.  Down  with  it.  Here's  Mrs.  Smirke's 
good  health ;  hip,  hip,  hurray ! " 

Smirke  convulsively  gulped  down  his  glass  of  wine,  and  Pen  waved 
his  over  his  head,  cheering  so  as  to  make  his  mother  and  Laura 
wonder  on  the  lawn,  and  his  uncle,  who  was  dozing  over  the  paper  in 
the  drawing-room,  start,  and  say  to  himself,  "  That  boy's  drinking  too 
much."     Smirke  put  down  the  glass. 

"  I  accept  the  omen,"  gasped  out  the  blushing  Curate.  "  Oh,  my 
dear  Arthur,  you — you  know  her — " 

"What — Mira  Portman .''  I  wish  you  joy:  she's  got  a  dev'lish 
large  waist ;  but  I  wish  you  joy,  old  fellov.-." 

"  Oh,  Arthur ! "  groaned  the  Curate  again,  and  nodded  his  head, 
speechless. 

"  Beg  your  pardon—  sorry  I  offended  you — but  she  has  got  a  large 
waist,  you  know — devilish  large  waist,"  Pen  continued — the  third 
bottle  evidently  beginning  to  act  upon  the  young  gentleman. 

"  It's  not  Miss  Portman,"  the  other  said,  in  a  voice  of  agony. 

"  Is  it  anybody  at  Chatteris  or  at  Clapham  ?  Somebody  here  ?  No 
— it  ain't  old  Pybus  ?  it  can't  be  Miss  Rolt  at  the  Factory — she's  only 
fourteen." 

"  It's  somebody  rather  older  than  I  am,  Pen,"  the  Curate  cried, 
looking  up  at  his  friend,  and  then  guiltily  casting  his  eyes  down  into 
his  plate. 

Pen  burst  out  laughing.  "  It's  Madame  Fribsby,  by  Jove,  it's 
Madame  Fribsby.     Madame  Frib  by  the  immortal  Gods  I " 

The  Curate  could  contain  no  more.  "  O  Pen,"  he  cried,  "  how  can 
you  suppose  that  any  of  those — of  those  more  than  ordinary  beings 
you  have  named— could  have  an  influence  upon  this  heart,  when  I 
have  been  daily  in  the  habit  of  contemplating  perfection  !  I  may  be 
insane,  I  may  be  madly  ambitious,  I  may  be  presumptuous — but  for 
two  years  my  heart  has  been  filled  by  one  image,  and  has  known  no 
other  idol.  Haven't  I  loved  you  as  a  son,  Arthur  ? — say,  hasn't  Charles 
Smirke  loved  you  as  a  son  ? " 

"  Yes,  old  boy,  you've  been  very  good  to  me,"  Pen  said,  whose 
liking,  however,  for  his  tutor  was  not  by  any  means  of  the  fihal  kind. 

"  My  means,"  rushed  on  Smirke,  "  are  at  present  limited,  I  own, 
and  my  mother  is  not  so  liberal  as  might  be  desired ;  but  what  she  has 
will  be  mine  at  her  death.  Were  she  to  hear  of  my  marrj-ing  a  lady 
of  rank  and  good  fortune,  my  mother  would  be  liberal,  I  am  sure  she 
would' be  liberal.  Whatever  I  have  or  subsequently  inherit — and  it's 
fi\'e  hundred  a  year  at  the  very  least — would  be  settled  upon  her,  and 
— and — and  vou  at  mv  death — that  is — " 


rENDEXXlS.  ■     149 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  mean  ? — and  what  have  I  to  do  with  your 
rnoney  ?"  cried  out  Pen,  in  a  puzzle. 

"  Arthur,  Arthur ! ''  exclaimed  the  other  wildly ;  "  you  say  I  am 
your  dearest  friend — Let  me  be  more.  Oh,  can't  you  see  that  the 
angelic  being  I  love — the  purest,  the  best  of  women — is  no  other  than 
your  dear,  dear  angel  of  a — mother." 

"My  mother!"  cried  out  Arthur,  jumping  up  and  sober  in  a 
minute.  "  Pooh !  damn  it,  Smirke,  you  must  be  mad — she's  seven 
or  eight  years  older  than  you  are." 

"  Did  you  find  that  any  objection  } "  cried  Smirke  piteously,  and 
alluding,  of  course,  to  the  elderly  subject  of  Pen's  own  passion. 

The  lad  felt  the  hint,  and  blushed  quite  red.  "  The  cases  are  not 
similar,  Smirke,"  he  said,  "  and  the  allusion  might  have  been  spared. 
A  man  may  forget  his  own  rank  and  elevate  any  woman  to  it ;  but 
allow  me  to  say  our  positions  are  very  different." 

"  How  do  you  mean,  dear  Arthur.'"'  the  Curate  interposed  sadly, 
cowering  as  he  felt  that  his  sentence  was  about  to  be  read. 

"Mean?"  said  Arthur.  "I  mean  what  I  say.  My  tutor,  I  say 
f//j'  tittot\  has  no  right  to  ask  a  lady  of  my  mother's  rank  of  life  to 
marry  him.  It's  a  breach  of  confidence.  I  say  it's  a  liberty  you  take, 
Smirke — it's  a  liberty.     Mean,  indeed!" 

"  O  Arthur ! "  the  Curate  began  to  cry  with  clasped  hands,  and  a 
scared  face,  but  Arthur  gave  another  stamp  with  his  foot,  and  began 
to  pull  at  the  bell.  "  Don't  let's  have  any  more  of  this.  We'll  have 
some  coffee,  if  you  please,"  he  said  with  a  majestic  air:  and  the 
old  butler  entering  at  the  summons,  Arthur  bade  him  to  serve  that 
refreshment. 

John  said  he  had  just  carried  coffee  into  the  drawing-room,  vv-here 
his  uncle  was  asking  for  Master  Arthur,  and  the  old  man  gave  a  glance 
of  wonder  at  the  three  empty  claret-bottles.  Smirke  said  he  thought 
he'd — he'd  rather  not  go  into  the  drawing-room,  on  which  Arthur 
haughtily  said,  "  As  you  please,"  and  called  for  Mr.  Smirke's  horse  to 
be  brought  round.  The  poor  fellow  said  he  knew  the  way  to  the 
stable  and  would  get  his  pony  himself,  and  he  went  into  the  hall  and 
sadly  put  on  his  coat  and  hat. 

Pen  followed  him  out  uncovered.  Helen  was  still  walking  up  and 
down  the  soft  lawn  as  the  sun  was  setting,  and  the  Curate  took  off  h.is 
hat  and  bowed  by  way  of  farewell,  and  passed  on  to  the  door  leading 
to  the  stable  court  by  which  the  pair  disappeared.  Smirke  knew  the 
way  to  the  stable,  as  he  said,  well  enough.  He  fumbled  at  the  girths 
of  the  saddle,  which  Pen  fastened  for  him,  and  put  on  the  bridle  and 
led  the  pony  into  the  yard.  The  boy  was  touched  by  the  grief  which 
appeared  in  the  other's  face  as  he  mounted.  Pen  held  out  his  hand, 
and  Smirke  wrung  it  silently. 


156    ■  PENDEXMS. 

"  I  say,  Smirke,"  he  said,  in  an  agitated  voice,  "  forgive  me  if  I 
have  said  anything  harsh — for  you  have  ahvays  been  very,  very  kind 
to  me.  But  it  can't  be,  old  fellow,  it  can't  be.  Be  a  man.  God 
bless  you." 

Smirke  nodded  his  head  silently,  and  rode  out  of  the  lodge  gate : 
and  Pen  looked  after  him  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  until  he  disappeared 
down  the  road,  and  the  clatter  of  the  pony's  hoofs  died  away.  Helen 
was  still  lingering  on  the  lawn  waiting  until  the  boy  came  back — she 
put  his  hair  off  his  forehead  and  kissed  it  fondly.  She  was  afraid  he 
had  been  drinking  too  much  wine.  Why  had  Mr.  Smirke  gone  away 
without  any  tea  ? 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  humour  beaming  in  his  eyes ; 
"  Smirke  is  unwell,"  he  said  with  a  laugh.  For  a  long  while  Helen 
had  not  seen  the  boy  looking  so  cheerful.  He  put  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  walked  her  up  and  down  the  walk  in  front  of  the  house. 
Laura  began  to  drub  on  the  drawing-room  window  and  nod  and  laugh 
from  it.  "  Come  along  you  two  people,"  cried  out  Major  Pendennis, 
"  your  coffee  is  getting  quite  cold." 

When  Laura  Avas  gone  to  bed.  Pen,  who  was  big  with  his  secret, 
burst  out  with  it,  and  described  the  dismal  but  ludicrous  scene  which 
had  occurred.  Helen  heard  of  it  with  many  blushes,  which  became 
her  pale  face  very  well,  and  a  perplexity  which  Arthur  roguishly 
enjoyed. 

"  Confound  the  felloAv's  impudence,"  Major  Pendennis  said  as  he 
took  his  candle,  "  where  will  the  assurance  of  these  people  stop  ? "  Pen 
and  his  mother  had  a  long  talk  that  night,  full  of  love,  confidence,  and 
laughter,  and  the  boy  somehow  slept  more  soundly  and  woke  up  more 
easily  than  he  had  done  for  many  months  before. 

Before  the  great  Mr.  Dolphin  quitted  Chatteris,  he  not  only  made 
an  advantageous  engagement  with  Miss  Fotheringay,  but  he  liberally 
left  with  her  a  sum  of  money  to  pay  off  any  debts  which  the  little 
family  might  have  contracted  during  their  stay  in  the  place,  and 
which,  mainly  through  the  lady's  own  economy  and  management,  were 
not  considerable.  The  small  account  with  the  spirit  merchant,  which 
Major  Pendennis  had  settled,  was  the  chief  of  Captain  Costigan's 
debts,  and  though  the  Captain  at  one  time  talked  about  repaying  every 
farthing  of  the  money,  it  never  appears  that  he  executed  his  menace, 
nor  did  the  laws  of  honour  in  the  least  call  upon  him  to  accomplish 
that  threat. 

When  Miss  Costigan  had  seen  all  the  outstanding  bills  paid  to 
the  uttermost  shilling,  she  handed  over  the  balance  to  her  father,  who 
broke  out  into  hospitalities  to  all  his  friends,  gave  the  little  Creeds 
more  apples  and  gingerbread  than  he  had  ever  bestowed  upon  them, 


PENDENNIS.  151 

so  that  the  widow  Creed  ever  after  held  the  memory  of  her  lodger  in 
veneration,  and  the  young  ones  wept  bitterly  when  he  went  away; 
and  in  a  word  managed  the  money  so  cleverly  that  it  was  entirely 
expended  before  many  days,  and  he  was  compelled  to  draw  upon 
Mr.  Dolphin  for  a  sum  to  pay  for  travelling  expenses  when  the  time 
of  their  departure  arrived. 

There  was  held  at  an  inn  in  that  county  town  a  weekly  meeting  of 
a  festive,  almost  a  riotous  character,  of  a  society  of  gentlemen  who 
called  themselves  the  Buccaneers.  Some  of  the  choice  spirits  of 
Chatteris  •  belonged  to  this  cheerful  club.  Graves,  the  apothecary 
(than  whom  a  better  fellow  never  put  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  smoked 
it).  Smart,  the  talented  and  humorous  portrait-painter  of  High  Street, 
Croker,  an  excellent  auctioneer,  and  the  uncompromising  Hicks,  the 
able  Editor  for  twenty-three  years  of  the  County  Chronicle  and  Chat- 
teris Champion,  were  amongst  the  crew  of  the  Buccaneers,  whom  also 
Bingley,  the  manager,  liked  to  join  of  a  Saturday  evening,  whenever 
he  received  permission  from  his  lady. 

Costigan  had  been  also  an  occasional  Buccaneer.  But  a  want  of 
punctuality  of  payments  had  of  late  somewhat  excluded  him  from 
the  Society,  where  he  was  subject  to  disagreeable  remarks  from  the 
landlord,  who  said  that  a  Buccaneer  who  didn't  pay  his  shot  was 
utterly  unworthy  to  be  a  Marine  Bandit.  But  when  it  became  known 
to  the  'Ears,  as  the  Clubbists  called  themselves  familiarly,  that  Miss 
Fotheringay  had  made  a  splendid  engagement,  a  great  revolution  of 
feeling  took  place  in  the  club  regarding  Captain  Costigan.  Solly,  mine 
host  of  the  Grapes,  told  the  gents  in  the  Buccaneers'  room  one  night 
how  noble  the  Captain  had  beayved  ;  having  been  round  and  paid  off 
all  his  ticks  in  Chatteris,  including  his  score  of  three  pound  fourteen 
here — and  pronounced  that  Cos  was  a  good  fellar,  a  gentleman  at 
bottom,  and  he,  Solly,  had  always  said  so,  and  finally  worked  upon  the 
feelings  of  the  Buccaneers  to  give  the  Captain  a  dinner. 

The  banquet  took  place  on  the  last  night  of  Costigan's  stay  at 
Chatteris,  and  was  served  in  Solly's  accustomed  manner.  As  good  a 
plain  dinner  of  old  English  fare  as  ever  smoked  on  a  table  was  pre- 
pared by  Mrs.  Solly ;  and  about  eighteen  gentlemen  sat  down  to  the 
festive  board.  Mr.  Jubber  (the  eminent  draper  of  High  Street)  was  in 
the  chair,  having  the  distinguished  guest  of  the  Club  on  his  right.  The 
able  and  consistent  Hicks  officiated  as  croupier  on  the  occasion;  most 
of  the  gentlemen  of  the  Club  were  present,  and  H.  Foker,  Esq.,  and 

Spavin,  Esq.,  friends  of  Captain  Costigan,  were  also  participators 

in  the  entertainment.  The  cloth  having  been  drawn,  the  Chairman 
said,  "  Costigan,  there  is  wine,  if  you  like,"  but  the  Captain  preferring 
punch,  that  liquor  was  voted  by  acclamation:  and  "Non  Nobis" 
having  been  sung  in  admirable  style  by  Messrs.  Bingley,  Hicks,  and 


lyZ  PENDENNIS. 

BuUby  (of  the  Cathedral  choir,  than  whom  a  more  jovial  spirit  "  ne'er 
tossed  off  a  bumper  or  emptied  a  bowl"),  the  Chairman  gave  the  health 
of  the  "  King ! "  which  was  drunk  with  the  loyalty  of  Chatteris  men, 
and  then,  without  further  circumlocution,  proposed  their  friend  "  Cap- 
tain Costigan." 

After  the  enthusiastic  cheering,  which  rang  through  old  Chatteris, 
had  subsided,  Captain  Costigan  rose  in  reply,  and  made  a  speech  of 
twenty  minutes,  in  which  he  was  repeatedly  overcome  by  his  emotions. 

The  gallant  Captain  said  he  must  be  pardoned  for  incoherence,  if 
his  heart  was  too  full  to  speak.  He  was  quitting  a  city  celebrated  for 
its  antiquitee,  its  hospitalitee,  the  beautee  of  its  women,  the  manly 
hdelitee,  generositee,  and  jovialitee  of  its  men.  (Cheers.)  He  was 
going  from  that  ancient  and  venerable  city,  of  which,  while  iMimoree 
held  her  sayt,  he  should  never  think  without  the  fondest  emotion,  to  a 
methrawpolis  where  the  talents  of  his  daughter  were  about  to  have 
full  play,  and  where  he  would  watch  over  her  like  a  guardian  angel. 
He  should  never  forget  that  it  was  at  Chatteris  she  had  acquired  the 
skill  which  she  was  about  to  exercise  in  another  sphere,  and  in  her 
name  and  his  own.  Jack  Costigan  thanked  and  blessed  them.  The 
gallant  officer's  speech  was  received  with  tremendous  cheers. 

Mr.  Hicks,  Croupier,  in  a  brilliant  and  energetic  manner,  proposed 
Miss  Fotheringay's  health. 

Captain  Costigan  returned  thanks  in  a  speech  full  of  feeling  and 
eloquence. 

Mr.  Jubber  proposed  the  Drama  and  the  Chatteris  Theatre,  and 
Mr.  Bingley  was  about  to  rise,  but  was  prevented  by  Captain  Costigan, 
Avho,  as  long  connected  with  the  Chatteris  Theatre,  and  on  behalf  of 
his  daughter,  thanked  the  company.  He  informed  them  that  he  had 
been  in  garrison  at  Gibraltar  and  at  Malta,  and  had  been  at  the 
taking  of  Flushing.  The  Duke  of  York  was  a  patron  of  the  Drama ; 
he  had  the  honour  of  dining  with  his  Royal  Highness  and  the  Duke 
of  Kent  many  times ;  and  the  former  had  justly  been  named  the  friend 
of  the  soldier.     (Cheers.) 

The  Army  was  then  proposed,  and  Captain  Costigan  returned 
thanks.  In  the  course  of  the  night,  he  sang  his  well-known  songs, 
-  The  Deserter,"  "  The  Shan  van  Voght,"  '"  The  Little  Pig  under  the 
Bed,"  and  "  The  Vale  of  Avoca."  The  evening  was  a  great  triumph 
for  him — it  ended.  All  triumphs  and  all  evenings  end.  And  the  next 
day.  Miss  Costigan  having  taken  leave  of  all  her  friends,  having  been 
reconciled  to  Miss  Rouncy,  to  whom  she  left  a  necklace  and  a  white 
satin  gown — the  next  day,  he  and  Miss  Costigan  had  places  in  the 
Competitor  coach  rolling  by  the  gates  of  Fairoaks  Lodge — and  Pen- 
dennis  never  saw  them. 

Tom  Smith,  the  coachman,  pointed  out  Fairoaks  to  Mr.  Costigan. 


PENDENNIS.  153 

who  sate  on  the  box  smelling  of  rum-and-water — and  the  Captain 
said  it  was  a  poor  place — and  added — "  Ye  should  see  Castle  Costigan, 
county  Mayo,  me  boy," — which  Tom  said  he  should  like  very  mucli 
to  see. 

They  were  gone,  and  Pen  had  never  seen  them !  He  only  knew 
of  their  departure  by  its  announcement  in  the  county  paper  the  next 
day :  and  straight  galloped  over  to  Chatteris-  to  hear  the  truth  of  this 
news.  They  were  gone  indeed.  A  card  of  "  Lodgings  to  let "  was 
placed  in  the  dear  little  familiar  window.  He  rushed  up  into  the 
room  and  viewed  it  over.  He  sate  ever  so  long  in  the  old  window- 
sea.t  looking  into  the  Dean's  Garden:  whence  he  and  Emily  had  so 
often  looked  out  together.  He  walked,  with  a  sort  of  terror,  into  her 
little  empty  bed-room.  It  was  swept  out  and  prepared  for  new  comers. 
The  glass  which  had  reflected  her  fair  face  was  shining  ready  for  her 
successor.  The  curtains  lay  square  folded  on  the  little  bed :  he  flung 
himself  down  and  buried  his  head  on  the  vacant  pillow. 

Laura  had  netted  a  purse  into  which  his  mother  had  put  some 
sovereigns,  and  Pen  had  found  it  on  his  dressing-table  that  very 
morning.  He  gave  one  to  the  little  servant  who  had  been  used  to 
wait  upon  the  Costigans,  and  another  to  the  children,  because  they 
said  they  were  very  fond  of  her.  It  was  but  a  few  months  back,  yet 
what  years  ago  it  seemed  since  he  had  first  entered  that  room!  Pie 
felt  that  it  was  all  done.  The  very  missing  her  at  the  coach  had 
something  fatal  in  it.  Blank,  weary,  utterly  wretched  and  lonely  the 
poor  lad  felt. 

His  mother  saw  She  was  gone  by  his  look  when  he  came  home. 
He  was  eager  to  fly  too  now,  as  were  other  folks  round  about  Chat- 
teris. Poor  Smirke  wanted  to  go  away  from  the  sight  of  the  Siren 
widow,  Foker  began  to  think  he  had  had  enough  of  Baymouth,  and 
that  a  few  supper-parties  at  Saint  Boniface  would  not  be  unpleasant. 
And  Major  Pendennis  longed  to  be  off,  and  have  a  little  pheasant- 
shooting  at  Stillbrook,  and  get  rid  of  all  the  annoyances  and  tra- 
casseries  of  the  village.  The  widow  and  Laura  nervously  set  about 
the  preparations  for  Pen's  kit,  and  filled  trunks  with  his  books  and 
linen.  Helen  wrote  cards  with  the  name  of  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq., 
which  were  duly  nailed  on  the  boxes ;  and  at  which  both  she  and 
Laura  looked  with  tearful,  wistful  eyes.  It  was  not  until  long,  long 
after  he  was  gone,  that  Pen  remembered  how  constant  and  tender 
the  affection  of  these  women  had  been,  and  how  selfish  his  own 
conduct  was. 

A  night  soon  comes,  when  the  mail,  with  echoing  horn  and  blazing 
lamps,  stops  at  the  lodge-gate  of  Fairoaks,  and  Pen's  trunks  and  his 
Uncle's   are  placed   on  the  roof  of  the  carriage,  into  which  the  pair 


154  PENDENNIS. 

presently  afterwards  enter.  Helen  and  Laura  are  standing  by  the 
evergreens  of  the  shrubbery,  their  figures  lighted  up  by  the  coach 
lamps :  the  guard  cries  "  All  right : "  in  another  instant  the  carriage 
whirls  onward ;  the  lights  disappear,  and  Helen's  heart  and  prayers 
go  with  them.  Her  sainted  benedictions  follow  the  departing  boyc 
He  has  left  the  home-nest  in  which  he  has  been  chafing,  and  whither, 
after  his  very  first  flight,  he  returned  bleeding  and  wounded;  he  is 
eager  to  go  forth  again  and  try  his  restless  wings. 

How  lonely  the  house  looks  without  him !  The  corded  trunks  and 
book-boxes  are  there  in  his  empty  study.  Laura  asks  leave  to  come 
and  sleep  in  Helen's  room :  and  when  she  has  cried  herself  to  sleep 
there,  the  mother  goes  softly  into  Pen's  vacant  chamber,  and  kneels 
down  by  the  bed  on  which  the  moon  is  shining,  and  there  prays  for 
her  boy,  as  mothers  only  know  how  to  plead.  He  knows  that  her 
pure  blessings  are  following  him,  as  he  is  carried  miles  away. 


PENDENNIS.  155 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

j  ALMA   MATER. 

;  T^  VERY  man,  however  brief  or  inglorious  may  have  been  his 
[  -L-'  academical  career,  must  remember  with  kindness  and  tender- 
!  ness  the  old  university  comrades  and  days.  The  young  man's  life  is 
just  beginning :  the  bo/s  leading-strings  are  cut,  and  he  has  all  the 
novel  delights  and  dignities  of  freedom.  He  has  no  idea  of  cares  yet, 
'  or  of  bad  health,  or  of  roguery,  or  poverty,  or  to-morrow's  disappoint- 
1  ment.  The  play  has  not  been  acted  so  often  as  to  make  him  tired. 
j  Though  the  after-drink,  as  we  mechanically  go  on  repeating  it,  is  stale 
I  and  bitter,  how  pure  and  brilliant  was  that  first  sparkling  draught  of 
1  pleasure! — How  the  boy  rushes  at  the  cup,  and  with  what  a  wild 
eagerness  he  drains  it!  But  old  epicures  who  are  cut  off  from  the 
delights  of  the  table,  and  are  restricted  to  a  poached  &gg  and  a  glass 
of  water,  like  to  see  people  with  good  appetites ;  and,  as  the  next  best 
I  thing  to  being  amused  at  a  pantomime  one's-self  is  to  see  one's  children 
I  enjoy  it,  I  hope  there  may  be  no  degree  of  age  or  experience  to  which 
;  mortal  may  attain,  when  he  shall  become  such  a  glum  philosopher,  as 
j  not  to  be  pleased  by  the  sight  of  happy  youth.  Coming  back  a  few 
'weeks  since  from  a  brief  visit  to  the  old  University  of  Oxbridge,  where 
;my  friend  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  passed  some  period  of  his  life,  I  made 
;the  journey  in  the  railroad  by  the  side  of  a  young  fellow  at  present  a 
I  student  of  Saint  Boniface.  He  had  got  an  <?;i-i?^^  somehow,  and  was 
'bent  on  a  day's  lark  in  London  :  he  never  stopped  rattling  and  talking 
|from  the  commencement  of  the  journey  until  its  close  (which  was  a 
I  great  deal  too  soon  for  me,  for  I  never  was  tired  of  listening  to  the 
ihonest  young  fellow's  jokes  and  cheery  laughter) ;  and  when  we  arrived 
'at  the  terminus  nothing  would  satisfy  him  but  a  Hansom  cab,  so  that 
'he  might  get  into  town  the  quicker,  and  plunge  into  the  pleasures 
i awaiting  him  there.  Away  the  young  lad  went  whirling,  with  joy  light- 
ing up  his  honest  face ;  and  as  for  the  reader's  humble  servant,  having 
|but  a  small  carpet-bag,  I  got  up  on  the  outside  of  the  omnibus,  and 
I  sate  there  very  contentedly  between  a  Jew  pedlar  smoking  bad  cigars, 
land  a  gentleman's  servant  taking  care  of  a  poodle-dog,  until  we  got 
jDur  fated  complement  of  passengers  and  boxes,  when  the  coachman 
'drove  leisurely  away.     IVe  weren't  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  town.     Neither 


156  PEXDENNIS. 

one  of  us  was  particularly  eager  about  rushing  into  that  near  smoking 
Babylon,  or  thought  of  dining  at  the  Club  that  night,  or  dancing  at 
the  Casino.  Yet  a  few  years  more,  and  my  young  friend  of  the  rail- 
road will  be  not  a  whit  more  eager. 

There  were  no  railroads  made  when  Arthur  Pendennis  went  to  the 
famous  University  of  Oxbridge ;  but  he  drove  thither  in  a  well- 
appointed  coach,  filled  inside  and  out  with  dons,  gownsmen,  young 
freshmen  about  to  enter,  and  their  guardians,  who  were  conducting 
them  to  the  university.  A  fat  old  gentleman,  in  grey  stockings,  from 
the  City,  who  sate  by  Major  Pendennis  inside  the  coach,  having  his 
pale-faced  son  opposite,  was  frightened  beyond  measure,  when  he 
heard  that  the  coach  had  been  driven  for  a  couple  of  stages  by  young 
Mr.  Foker,  of  Saint  Boniface  College,  who  was  the  friend  of  all  men, 
including  coachmen,  and  could  drive  as  well  as  Tom  Hicks  himself. 
Pen  sate  on  the  roof,  examining  coach,  passengers,  and  country,  with 
great  delight  and  curiosity.  His  heart  jumped  with  pleasure  as  the 
famous  university  came  in  view,  and  the  magnificent  prospect  of 
venerable  towers  and  pinnacles,  tall  elms  and  shining  river,  spread 
before  him. 

Pen  had  passed  a  few  days  with  his  uncle  at  the  Major's  lodgings, 
in  Bury  Street,  before  they  set  out  for  Oxbridge.     Major  Pendennis 
thought  that  the  lad's  wardrobe  wanted  renewal  ;  and  Arthur  was  by  ' 
no  means  averse  to  any  plan  which  was  to  bring  him  new  coats  and 
waistcoats.     There  was  no  end  to  the  sacrifices  which  the  self-denying 
uncle  made  in  the  youth's  behalf.      London  was  awfully  lonely.     The  . 
Pall  Mall  pavement  was  deserted ;  the  very  red-jackets  had  gone  out 
of  town.      There  was  scarce  a  face  to  be  seen  in  the  bow-windows  ol  ; 
the  clubs.     The  Major  conducted  his  nephew  into  one  or  two  of  those  i 
desert  mansions,  and  wrote  down  the  lad's  name  on  the  candidate-lisi 
of  one  of  them  ;    and  Arthur's   pleasure   at   this  compliment  on  hi 
guardian's  part  was  excessive.      He   read  in  the  parchment  volume 
his  name  and  titles,   as  "  Arthur    Pendennis,    Esquire,    of   Fairoak.<| 

Lodge,  shire,  and  Saint    Boniface  College,    Oxbridge  ;  proposes 

by  Major  Pendennis,  and  seconded  by  Viscount  Colchicum,"'  with 
thrill  of  intense  gratification.  "  You  will  come  in  for  ballot  in  abou 
three  years,  by  which  time  you  will  have  taken  your  degree,"  tht 
guardian  said.  Pen  longed  for  the  three  years  to  be  over,  and  survcye( 
the  stucco-halls,  and  vast  libraries,  and  drawing-rooms,  as  already  hi 
own  property.  The  Major  laughed  slily  to  see  the  pompous  airs  of  th< 
simple  young  fellow,  as  he  strutted  out  of  the  building.  He  and  Foke 
drove  down  in  the  latter's  cab  one  day  to  the  Greyfriars,  and  renewec 
acquaintance  with  some  of  their  old  comrades  there.  The  boys  cann 
crowding  up  to  the  cab  as  it  stood  by  the  Greyfriars  gates,  wher 
they  were  entering,  and  admired  the  chestnut  horse,  and  the  tights  an 


PENDENNIS.  157 

livery  and  gravity  of  Stoopid,  the  tiger.  The  bell  for  afteiTioon-school 
rang  as  they  were  swaggering  about  the  play-ground  talking  to  their 
old  cronies.  The  awful  Doctor  passed  into  school  with  his  grammar 
in  his  hand.  Foker  slunk  away  uneasily  at  his  presence,  but  Pen  went 
up  blushing,  and  shook  the  dignitary  by  the  hand.  He  laughed  as  he 
thought  that  well-remembered  Latin  Grammar  had  boxed  his  ears 
many  a  time.  He  was  generous,  good-natured,  and,  in  a  word,  per- 
fectly conceited  and  satisfied  with  himself. 

Then  they  drove  to  the  parental  brew-house.      Foker's  Entire  is 

!:omposed   in  an   enormous  pile  of  buildings,  not  far  from  the  Grey- 

fi  iars,  and  the  name  of  that  well-known  firm  is  gilded  upon  innumer- 

\h\c  public-house  signs,  tenanted  by  its  vassals  in  the  neighbourhood  : 

he  venerable  junior  partner  and  manager  did  honour  to  the  young 

ord  of  the  vats  and  his  friend,  and  served  them  with  silver  flagons  of 

jrown-stout,  so  strong,  that  you  would  have  thought,  not  only  the 

young  men,  but  the  very  horse  Mr.  Harry  Foker  drove,  was  affected 

3y  the  potency  of  the  drink,  for  he  rushed  home  to  the  west-end  of 

he  town  at  a  rapid  pace,  which  endangered  the  pie-stalls  and  the 

I A  omen  on  the  crossings,  and  brought  the  cab-steps  into  collision  with 

'  lie  posts  at  the  street  corners,  and  caused  Stoopid  to  swing  fearfully 

)n  his  board  behind. 

01        The  Major  was   quite    pleased    when    Pen    was    with   his  young 

icquaintance ;  listened  to  Mr.  Foker's  artless  stories  with  the  greatest 

merest :  gave  the  two  boys  a  fine  dinner  at  a  Covent  Garden  Coffee- 

louse,  whence  they  proceeded  to  the  play  ;  but  was  above  all  happy 

ivhen  Mr.  and  Lady  Agnes  Foker,  who  happened  to  be  in  London, 

•equested  the   pleasure  of  Major  Pendennis  and    Mr.  Arthur  Pen- 

hos  iennis's  company  at  dinner  in  Grosvenor  Street.     "  Having  obtained 

;.lis  .he  entree  into  Lady  Agnes  Foker's  house,"  he  said  to  Pen  with  an 

hi  iiffectionate  solemnity  which  befitted  the  importance  of  the  occasion^ 

it  behoves   you,   my   dear  boy,  to  keep  it.     You   must  mind   and 

lever  neglect  to  call  in  Grosvenor  Street  when  you  come  to  London. 

'.  recommend  you  to  read  up  carefully,  in  Debrett,  the  alliances  and 

I'nljenealogy  of  the  Earls  of  Rosherville,  and  if  you  can,  to  make  some 

rifling  allusions  to  the  family,  something  historical,  neat,  and  com- 

)limcntary,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  which  you,  who  have  a  poetic  fancy, 

an  do  pretty  well.     Mr.  Foker  himself  is  a  worthy  man,  though  not 

ij^lij  )f  high  extraction  or  indeed  much  education.     He  always  makes  a 

(In  :)oint  of  having  some  of  the  family  porter  served  round  after  dinner, 

vhich  you  will  on  no  account  refuse,  and  which  I  shall  drink  myself, 

hough  all  beer  disagrees  with  me  confoundedly."    And  the  heroic 

.j-jji  nartyr  did  actually  sacrifice  himself,  as  he  said  he  would,  on  the  day 

,],([  vhen  the  dinner  took  place,  and  old  Mr.  Foker,  at  the  head  of  his 

.jj  (able,  made  his  usual  joke  about  Foker's  Entire.     We  should  all  of 


loui 


158  PENDENXIS. 

tis,  I  am  sure,  have  liked  to  see  the  Major's  grin,  when  the  worthy  old 
gentleman  made  his  time-honoured  joke. 

Lady  Agnes,  who,  wrapped  up  in  Harry,  was  the  fondest  ot 
mothers,  and  one  of  the  most  good-natured  though  not  the  wisest  ot 
women,  received  her  son's  friend  with  great  cordiality ;  and  astonished 
Pen  by  accounts  of  the  severe  course  of  studies  which  her  darling 
boy  was  pursuing,  and  which  she  feared  might  injure  his  dear  health. 
Foker  the  elder  burst  into  a  horse-laugh  at  some  of  these  speeches, 
and  the  heir  of  the  house  winked  his  eye  very  knowingly  a.t  his  friend. 
And  Lady  Agnes  then  going  through  her  son's  history  from  the  earliest 
time,  and  recounting  his  miraculous  suflerings  in  the  measles  and 
whooping-cough,  his  escape  from  drowning,  the  shocking  tyrannies 
practised  upon  him  at  that  horrid  school,  whither  Mr.  Foker  would 
send  him  because  he  had  been  brought  up  there  himself,  and  she  never 
would  forgive  that  disagreeable  Doctor,  no,  never — Lady  Agnes,  we 
say,  having  prattled  away  for  an  hour  incessantly  about  her  son,  voted 
the  two  Messieurs  Pendennis  most  agreeable  men;  and  when  the 
pheasants  came  with  the  second  course,  which  the  Major  praised  as 
the  very  finest  birds  he  ever  saw,  her  Ladyship  said  they  came  from  1 
Logwood  (as  the  Major  knew  perfectly  well),  and  hoped  that  they 
would  both  pay  her  a  visit  there — at  Christmas,  or  when  dear  Harry 
was  at  home  for  the  vacations. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  boy,"  Pendennis  said  to  Arthur,  as  they 
were  lighting  their  candles  in  Bur}'  Street  afterwards  to  go  to  bed. 
"  You  made  that  little  allusion  to  Agincourt,  where  one  of  the  Rosher- 
villes  distinguished  himself,  very  neatly  and  well,  although  Lady  Agnes 
did  not  quite  understand  it :  but  it  w-as  exceedingly  well  for  a  beginner 
— though  you  oughtn't  to  blush  so,  by  the  way — and  I  beseech  you, 
my  dear  Arthur,  to  remember  through  life,  that  with  an  etitree — with  a 
good  entree,  mind — it  is  just  as  easy  for  you  to  have  good  society  as 
bad,  and  that  it  costs  a  man,  when  properly  introduced,  no  more 
trouble  or  soins  to  keep  a  good  footing  in  the  best  houses  in  London 
than  to  dine  with  a  lawyer  in  Bedford  Square.  Mind  this  when  you 
are  at  Oxbridge  pursuing  your  studies,  and  for  Heaven's  sake  be  very 
particular  in  the  acquaintances  which  you  make.  The  premier  pas 
in  life  is  the  most  important  of  all — did  you  write  to  your  mother  to- 
day ? — No  ? — well,  do,  before  you  go,  and  call  and  ask  Mr.  Foker  for  a 
frank — They  like  it — Good  night.     God  bless  you." 

Pen  wrote  a  droll  account  of  his  doings  in  London,  and  the  play, 
and  the  visit  to  the  old  Friars,  and  the  brewer)',  and  the  party  at 
Mr.  Poker's,  to  his  dearest  mother,  who  was  saying  her  prayers  at 
home  in  the  lonely  house  at  Fairoaks,  her  heart  full  of  love  and 
tenderness  un\itterable  for  the  boy :  and  she  and  Laura  road  that 
letter  and  those  which  followed,  many,  many  times,  and  brooded  over 


3 


PENDENNIS.  159 

them  as  women  do.    It  was  the  first  step  in  hfe  that  Pen  was  making — 

Ah  !  what  a  dangerous  journey  it  is,  and  how  the  l.iravest  may  stumble 

and  the  strongest  fail.     Brother  wayfarer !  may  you  have  a  kind  arm 

to  support  yours  on  the  path,  and  a  friendly  hand  to  succour  those 

who  fall  beside  you.     May  truth  guide,  mercy  forgive  at  the  end,  and 

love  accompany  always.     Without  that  lamp  how  blind  the  traveller 

would  be,  and  how  black  and  cheerless  the  journey ! 

\         So  the  coach  drove  up  to  that  ancient  and  comfortable  inn  the 

I!  Trencher,  which  stands  in  Main  Street,  Oxbridge,  and  Pen  with  delight 

5   and  eagerness  remarked,  for  the  first  time,  gownsmen  going  about, 

chapel  bells  clinking  (bells  in  Oxbridge  are  ringing  from  morning-tide 

I  till  even-song,) — towers  and  pinnacles  rising  calm  and  stately  over  the 
gables  and  antique  house-roofs  of  the  city.  Previous  communications 
had  taken  place  between  Dr.  Portman  on  Pen's  part,  and  Mr.  Buck, 
Tutor  of  Boniface,  on  whose  side  Pen  was  entered  ;  and  as  soon  as 
Major  Pendennis  had  arranged  his  personal  appearance,  so  that  it 
should  make  a  satisfactory  impression  upon  Pen's  tutor,  the  pair 
walked  down  Main  Street,  and  passed  the  great  gate  and  belfry-tower 
of  Saint  George's  College,  and  so  came,  as  they  were  directed,  to  Saint 
Boniface,  where  again  Pen's  heart  began  to  beat  as  they  entered  at 
the  wicket  of  the  venerable  ivy-mantled  gate  of  the  College.  It  is 
surmounted  with  an  ancient  dome  almost  covered  with  creepers,  and 
adorned  with  the  effigy  of  the  Saint  from  whom  the  House  takes  its 
name,  and  many  coats-of-arms  of  its  royal  and  noble  benefactors. 

The  porter  pointed  out  a  queer  old  tower  at  the  corner  of  the 
quadrangle,  by  which  Mr.  Buck's  rooms  were  approached,  and  the 
two  gentlemen  walked  across  the  square,  the  main  features  of  which 
were  at  once  and  for  ever  stamped  in  Pen's  mind — the  pretty  fountain 
playing  in  the  centre  of  the  fair  grass  plats  ;  the  tall  chapel  windows 
;  and  buttresses  rising  to  the  right ;  the  hall,  with  its  tapering  lantern 
1  and  oriel  window ;  the  lodge,  from  the  doors  of  which  the  Master 
i  issued  awfully  in  rustling  silks :  the  lines  of  the  surrounding  rooms 
I  pleasantly  broken  by  carved  chimnies,  grey  turrets,  and  quaint  gables 
j  — all  these  Mr.  Pen's  eyes  drank  in  with  an  eagerness  which  belongs 
)  to  first  impressions ;  and  Major  Pendennis  surveyed  with  that  calm- 

( I  ness  which  belongs  to  a  gentleman  who  does  not  care  for  the  pic- 

;  jturesque,  and  whose  eyes  have  been  somewhat  dimmed  by  the  constant 

)  !  glare  of  the  pavement  of  Pall  Mall. 

•  I  Saint  George's  is  the  great  College  of  the  University  of  Oxbridge, 
(with  its  four  vast  quadrangles,  and  its  beautiful  hall  and  gardens,  and 
I  the  Georgians,  as  the  men  are  called,  wear  gowns  of  a  peculiar  cut, 
land  give  themselves  no  small  airs  of  superiority  over  all  other  young 

.  jmen.     Little  Saint  Boniface  is  but  a  petty  hermitage  in  comparison  of 

.   the  huge  consecrated  pile  alongside  of  which  it  lies.     But  considering 


i6o  PEXDENiXIS. 

its  size  it  has  always  kept  an  excellent  name  in  the  university.  Its 
Ion  is  very  good:  the  best  families  of  certain  counties  have  time. out  of 
mind  sent  up  their  young  men  to  Saint  Boniface :  the  college  livings 
are  remarkably  good,  the  fellowships  easy ;  the  Boniface  men  had  had 
more  than  their  fair  share  of  university  honours  ;  their  boat  was  third 
upon  the  river;  their  chapel-choir  is  not  inferior  to  Saint  George's 
itself;  and  the  Boniface  ale  the  best  in  Oxbridge.  In  the  comfortable 
old  wainscoted  College-Hall,  and  round  about  Roubilliac's  statue  ot 
Saint  Boniface  (who  stands  in  an  attitude  of  seraphic  benediction  over 
the  uncommonly  good  cheer  of  the  fellows'  table)  there  are  portraits 
of  many  most  eminent  Bonifacians.  There  is  the  learned  Dr.  Griddle, 
who  suftered  in  Henry  VIII.'s  time,  and  Archbishop  Bush  who  roasted 
him — there  is  Lord  Chief  Justice  Hicks — the  Duke  of  St.  Davids,  K.G., 
Chancellor  of  the  University  and  Member  of  this  College — Sprott  the 
Poet,  of  whose  fame  the  college  is  justly  proud — Doctor  Blogg,  the 
late  master,  and  friend  of  Doctor  Johnson,  who  visited  him  at  St. 
Boniface — and  other  lawyers,  scholars,  and  divines,  whose  portraitures 
look  from  the  walls,  or  whose  coats-of-arms  shine  in  emerald  and  ruby, 
gold,  and  azure,  in  the  tall  windows  of  the  refectory.  The  venerable 
cook  of  the  college  is  one  of  the  best  artists  in  Oxbridge,  and  the 
wine  in  the  fellows'  room  has  long  been  famed  for  its  excellence  and 
abundance. 

Into  this  certainly  not  the  least  snugly  sheltered  arbour  amongst 
the  groves  of  Academe,  Pen  now  found  his  way,  leaning  on  his  uncle's 
arm,  and  they  speedily  reached  Mr.  Buck's  rooms,  and  were  conducted 
into  the  apartment  of  that  courteous  gentleman. 

He  had  received  previous  information  from  Dr.  Portman  regarding 
Pen,  with  respect  to  whose  family,  fortune,  and  personal  merits  the 
honest  doctor  had  spoken  with  no  small  enthusiasm.  Indeed  Portman 
had  described  Arthur  to  the  tutor  as  "  a  young  gentleman  of  some 
fortune  and  landed  estate,  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  families  in  the 
kingdom,  and  possessing  such  a  character  and  genius  as  were  sure, 
under  proper  guidance,  to  make  him  a  credit  to  the  college  and  the 
university."  Under  such  recommendations,  the  tutor  was,  of  course, 
most  cordial  to  the  young  freshman  and  his  guardian,  invited  the 
latter  to  dine  in  hall,  where  he  would  have  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
his  nephew  wear  his  gown  and  eat  his  dinner  for  the  first  time,  and 
requested  the  pair  to  take  wine  at  his  rooms  after  hall,  and  in  con- 
sequence of  the  highly  favourable  report  he  had  received  of  Mr.  Arthur  \ 
Pendennis,  said,  he  should  be  happy  to  give  him  the  best  set  of  rooms  j 
to  be  had  in  college — a  gentleman-pensioners  set,  indeed,  which  werej 
just  luckily  vacant.  When  a  College  Magnate  takes  the  trouble  to  be] 
polite,  there  is  no  man  more  splendidly  courteous.  Immersed  in  theirJ 
books,  and  excluded  from  the  world  by  the  gravity  of  tlieir  occupa-J 


PENDENNIS.  i6i 

tions,  these  reverend  men  assume  a  solemn  magnificence  of  compli- 
ment in  which  they  rustle  and  swell  as  in  their  grand  robes  of  state. 
Those  silks  and  brocades  are  not  put  on  for  all  comers  or  every  day. 
When  the  two  gentlemen  had  taken  leave  of  the  tutor  in  his  study| 
;  and  had  returned  to  Mr.  Buck's  ante-room,  or  lecture-room,  a  very 
I  handsome  apartment,  turkey-carpeted,  and  hung  with  excellent  prints 
;  and  richly-framed  pictures,  they  found  the  tutor's  servant  already  in 
\  waiting  there,  accompanied  by  a  man  with  a  bag  full  of  caps  and  a 
r  number  of  gowns,  from  which  Pen  might  select  a  cap  and  gown  for 
I  himself,  and  the  servant,  no  doubt,  would  get  a  commission  propor- 
t  tionable  to  the  service  done  by  him.     Mr.  Pen  was  all  in  a  tremor  of 
[  pleasure  as  the  bustling  tailor  tried  on  a  gown,  and  pronounced  that  it 
was  an  excellent  fit;  and  then  he  put  the  pretty  college  cap  on,  in 
rather  a  dandified  manner,  and  somewhat  on  one  side,  as  he  had 
seen  Fiddicombe,  the  youngest  master  at  Greyfriars,  wear  it.     And  he 
inspected  the  entire  costume  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  in  one 
of  the  great  gilt  mirrors  which  ornamented  Mr.  Buck's  lecture-room: 
for  some  of  these  college  divines  are  no  more  above  looking-glasses 
than  a  lady  is,  and  look  to  the  set  of  their  gowns  and  caps  quite  as 
anxiously  as  folks  do  of  the  lovelier  sex. 

Then  Davis,  the  skip  or  attendant,  led  the  way,  keys  in  hand,  across 
the  quadrangle,  the  Major  and  Pen  following  him,  the  latter  blushing, 
and  pleased  with  his  new  academical  habiliments,  across  the  quad- 
rangle to  the  rooms  which  were  destined  for  the  freshman ;  and  which 
were  vacated  by  the  retreat  of  the  gentleman-pensioner,  Mr.  Spicer. 
The  rooms  were  very  comfortable,  with  large  cross-beams,  high  wain- 
scots, and  small  windows  in  deep  embrasures.  Mr.  Spicer's  furniture 
'jwas  there,  and  to  be  sold  at  a  valuation,  and  Major  Pendennis  agreed 
on  his  nephew's  behalf  to  take  the  available  part  of  it,  laughingly,  how- 
ever, declining  (as,  indeed,  Pen  did  for  his  own  part)  six  sporting 
prints,  and  four  groups  of  opera-dancers  with  gauze  draperies,  which 
formed  the  late  occupant's  pictorial  collection. 

Then  they  went  to  hall,  where  Pen  sate  down  and  ate  his  commons 
I  with  his  brother  freshmen,  and  the  Major  took  his  place  at  the  high 
j table  along  with  the  college  dignitaries  and  other  fathers  or  guardians 
,of  youth,  who  had  come  up  with  their  sons  to  Oxbridge;  and  after  all 
ithey  went  to  Mr.  Buck's  to  take  wine;  and  after  wine  to  chapel,  where 
Ithe  Major  sate  with  great  gravity  in  the  upper  place,  having  a  fine  view 
of  the  Master  in  his  carved  throne  or  stall  under  the  organ-loft,  where 
Ithat  gentleman,  the  learned  Doctor  Donne,  sate  magnificent,  with  his 
I  great  prayer-book  before  him,  an  image  of  statuesque  piety  and  rigid 
I  devotion.  All  the  young  freshmen  behaved  with  gravity  and  decorum, 
I  but  Pen  was  shocked  to  see  that  atrocious  little  Foker,  who  came  in 
(very  late,  and  half-a-dozen  of  his  comrades  in  the  gentlemen-pen- 
i  II 


1 62  PENDENNIS. 

sioners'  seats,  giggling  and  talking  as  if  they  had  been  in  so  many 
stalls  at  the  Opera. 

Pen  could  hardly  sleep  at  night  in  his  bed-room  at  the  Trencher ; 
*so  anxious  was  he  to  begin  his  college  life,  and  to  get  into  his  own 
apartments.  What  did  he  think  about,  as  he  lay  tossing  and  awake  ? 
Was  it  about  his  mother  at  home ;  the  pious  soul  whose  life  was  bound 
up  in  his  ?  Yes,  let  us  hope  he  thought  of  her  a  little.  Was  it  about 
Miss  Fotheringay,  and  his  eternal  passion,  which  had  kept  him  awake 
so  many  nights,  and  created  such  wretchedness  and  such  longing  ? 
He  had  a  trick  of  blushing,  and  if  you  had  been  in  the  room,  and  the 
candle  had  not  been  out,  you  might  have  seen  the  youth's  countenance 
redden  more  than  once,  as  he  broke  out  into  passionate  incoherent 
exclamations  regarding  that  luckless  event  of  his  life.  His  uncle's 
lessons  had  not  been  thrown  away  upon  him ;  the  mist  of  passion  had 
passed  from  his  eyes  now,  and  he  saw  her  as  she  was.  To  think  that 
he,  Pendennis,  had  been  enslaved  by  such  a  woman,  and  then  jilted  by 
her !  that  he  should  have  stooped  so  low,  to  be  trampled  on  in  the 
mire  !  that  there  was  a  time  in  his  life,  and  that  but  a  few  months  back, 
when  he  was  willing  to  take  Costigan  for  his  father-in-law ! — 

"  Poor  old  Smirke  ! "  Pen  presently  laughed  out — "  well.  111  write 
and  try  and  console  the  poor  old  boy.  He  won't  die  of  his  passion, 
ha,  ha ! "  The  Major,  had  he  been  awake,  might  have  heard  a  score  of 
such  ejaculations  uttered  by  Pen  as  he  lay  awake  and  restless  through 
the  first  night  of  his  residence  at  Oxbridge. 

It  would,  perhaps,  have  been  better  for  a  youth,  the  battle  of  whose 
life  was  going  to  begin  on  the  morrow,  to  have  passed  the  eve  in  a 
difterent  sort  of  vigil:  but  the  world  had  got  hold  of  Pen  in  the  shape 
of  his  selfish  old  Mentor :  and  those  who  have  any  interest  in  his 
character,  must  have  perceived  ere  now,  that  this  lad  was  verj"  weak 
as  well  as  very  impetuous,  very  vain  as  well  as  verj-  frank,  and  if  of  a 
generous  disposition,  not  a  little  selfish,  in  the  midst  of  his  profuseness, 
and  also  rather  fickle,  as  all  eager  pursuers  of  self-gratification  are. 

The  six-months'  passion  had  aged  him  very  considerably.  There 
was  an  immense  gulf  between  Pen  the  victim  of  love,  and  Pen  the 
innocent  boy  of  eighteen,  sighing  after  it  :  and  so  Arthur  Pendennis 
had  all  the  experience  and  superiority,  besides  that  command  whicl" 
afterwards  conceit  and  imperiousness  of  disposition  gave  him  over  th< 
young  men  with  whom  he  now  began  to  live. 

He  and  his  uncle  passed  the  morning  with  great  satisfaction  ii 
making  purchases  for  the  better  comfort  of  the  apartments  which  th 
lad  was  about  to  occupy.  Mr.  Spiccr's  china  and  glass  were  in 
dreadfully  dismantled  condition,  his  lamps  smashed,  and  his  boolt 
cases  by  no  means  so  spacious  as  those  shelves  which  would  be  reqa 
site  to  receive  the  contents  of  the  boxes  which  were  Iving  in  the  ha 


RENDENNIS.  i.i&3 

at  Fairoaks,  and  which  were  addressed  to  Arthur  in  the  hand  of  poor 
Helen. 

The  boxes  arrived  in  a  few  days,  that  his  mother  had  packed  with 
3o  much  care.  Pen  was  touched  as  he  read  the  superscriptions  in  the 
idear  well-known  hand,  and  he  arranged  in  their  proper  places  all 
;he  books,  his  old  friends,  and  all  the  linen  and  table-cloths  which 
Helen  had  selected  from  the  family  stock,  and  all  the  jam-pots 
vhich  little  Laura  had  bound  in  straw,  and  the  hundred  simple 
its  of  home. 


aoi 

in 

bed  ■ 
le^  ■ 


i64  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

PENDENNIS  OF   BONIFACE. 

OUR  friend  Pen  was  not  sorry  when  his  Mentor  took  leave  of  the 
young  gentleman  on  the  second  day  after  the  arrival  of  the  pair 
in  Oxbridge,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  the  Major  on  his  part  was  very 
glad  to  have  discharged  his  duty,  and  to  have  the  duty  over.  More 
than  three  months  of  precious  time  had  that  martyr  of  a  Major  given 
up  to  his  nephew — Was  ever  selfish  man  called  upon  to  make  a  greater 
sacrifice  ?  Do  you  know  many  men  or  Majors  who  would  do  as  much  plT 
A  man  will  lay  down  his  head,  or  peril  his  life  for  his  honour,  but  let! 
us  be  shy  how  we  ask  him  to  give  up  his  ease  or  his  heart's  desire. 
Very  few  of  us  can  bear  that  trial.  Let  us  give  the  Major  due  credit 
for  his  conduct  during  the  past  quarter,  and  own  that  he  has  quite  a 
right  to  be  pleased  at  getting  a  holiday.  Foker  and  Pen  saw  him  off 
in  the  coach,  and  the  former  youth  gave  particular  orders  to  the  coach- 
man to  take  care  of  that  gentleman  inside.  It  pleased  the  elder  Pen- 
dennis  to  have  his  nephew  in  the  company  of  a  young  fellow  who 
would  introduce  him  to  the  best  set  of  the  university.  The  Major' 
rushed  off  to  London  and  thence  to  Cheltenham,' from  which  watering- 
place  he  descended  upon  some  neighbouring  great  houses,  whereof  the 
families  were  not  gone  abroad,  and  where  good  shooting  and  companj 
Avere  to  be  had. 

We  are  not  about  to  go  through  young  Pen's  academical  careei 
very  minutely.  Alas,  the  life  of  such  boys  does  not  bear  telling  alta 
gether.  I  wish  it  did.  I  ask  you,  does  yours  }  As  long  as  what  w< 
call  our  honour  is  clear,  I  suppose  your  mind  is  pretty  easy.  Womei 
are  pure,  but  not  men.  Women  are  unselfish,  but  not  men.  And 
would  not  wish  to  say  of  poor  Arthur  Pendennis  that  he  was  worS'' 
than  his  neighbours,  only  that  his  neighbours  are  bad  for  the  mos 
part.  Let  us  have  the  candour  to  own  as  much,  at  least.  Can  yo 
point  out  ten  spotless  men  of  your  acquaintance .'  Mine  is  prett 
large,  but  I  can't  find  ten  saints  in  the  list. 

During  the  first  term  of  Mr.  Pen's  university  life,  he  attende 
classical  and  mathematical  lectures  with  tolerable  assiduity ;  but  di 
covering  before  very  long  time  that  he  had  little  taste  or  genius  for  tb 
pursuing  of  the  exact  sciences,  and  being  perhaps  rather  annoyed  tlu 


PENDENNIS.  165 

ne  or  two  very  vulgar  young  men,  who  did  not  even  use  straps  to 
licir  trousers,  so  as  to  cover  the  abominably  thick  and  coarse  shoes 
nd  stockings  which  they  wore,  beat  him  completely  in  the  lecture- 
00m,  he  gave  up  his  attendance  at  that  course,  and  announced  to  his 
and  parent  that  he  proposed  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  the  culti- 
ation  of  Greek  and  Roman  Literature. 

Mrs.  Pendennis  was,  for  her  part,  quite  satisfied  that  her  darling 
oy  should  pursue  that  branch  of  learning  for  which  he  had  the 
ixatest  inclination ;  and  only  besought  him  not  to  ruin  his  health  by 
30  much  study,  for  she  had  heard  the  most  melancholy  stories  of 
oiing  students  who,  by  over-fatigue,  had  brought  on  brain-fevers  and 
ci'ished  untimely  in  the  midst  of  their  university  career.  And  Pen's 
L.ihh,  which  was  always  delicate,  was  to  be  regarded,  as  she  justly 
lid,  beyond  all  considerations  or  vain  honours.  Pen,  although  not 
ware  of  any  lurking  disease  which  was  likely  to  endanger  his  life,  yet 
,  iiully  promised  his  mamma  not  to  sit  up  reading  too  late  of  nights, 
nd  stuck  to  his  word  in  this  respect  with  a  great  deal  more  tenacity 
f  resolution  than  he  exhibited  upon  some  other  occasions,  when  per- 
aps  he  was  a  little  remiss. 

Presently  he  began  too  to  find  that  he  learned  little  good  in  the 
i.issical  lecture.  His  fellow-students  there  were  too  dull,  as  in  mathe- 
matics they  were  too  learned  for  him.  Mr.  Buck,  the  tutor,  was  no 
otter  a  scholar  than  many  a  fifth-form  boy  at  Greyfriars  ;  might 
ave  some  stupid  humdrum  notions  about  the  metre  and  grammatical 
onstruction  of  a  passage  of  yEschylus  or  Aristophanes,  but  had  no 
lore  notion  of  the  poetry  than  Mrs.  Binge,  his  bed-maker ;  and  Pen 
row  weary  of  hearing  the  dull  students  and  tutor  blunder  through  a 
;w  lines  of  a  play,  which  he  could  read  in  a  tenth  part  of  the  time 
hich  they  gave  to  it.  After  all,  private  reading,  as  he  began  to  per- 
cive,  was  the  only  study  which  was  really  profitable  to  a  man ;  and  he 
nnounced  to  his  mamma  that  he  should  read  by  himself  a  great  deal 
lore,  and  in  public  a  great  deal  less.  That  excellent  woman  knew  no 
,iore  about  Homer  than  she  did  about  Algebra,  but  she  was  quite  con- 
futed with  Pen's  arrangements  regarding  his  course  of  studies,  and 
jilt  perfectly  confident  that  her  dear  boy  would  get  the  place  which  he 
iierited. 

Pen  did  not  come  home  until  after  Christmas,  a  little  to  the  fond 
lother's  disappointment,  and  Laura's,  who  was  longing  for  him  to 
lake  a  fine  snow  fortification,  such  as  he  had  made  three  winters 
1  efore.  But  he  was  invited  to  Logwood,  Lady  Agnes  Foker's,  where 
iiere  were  private  theatricals,  and  a  gay  Christmas  party  of  very  fine 
)lks,  some  of  them  whom  Major  Pendennis  would  on  no  account 
ave  his  nephew  neglect.  However,  he  stayed  at  home  for  the  last 
iree  weeks  of  the  vacation,   and   Laura    had   the   opportunity  of 


1 66  PENDENNIS. 

remarking  what  a  quantity  of  fine  new  clothes  he  brought  with  him, 
and  his  mother  admired  his  improved  appearance  and  manly  and 
decided  tone. 

He  did  not  come  home  at  Easter;  but  when  he  arrived  for  the  long 
vacation,  he  brought  more  smart  clothes ;  appearing  in  the  morning  in 
wonderful  shooting-jackets,  with  remarkable  buttons ;  and  in  the  even- 
ing in  gorgeous  velvet  waistcoats,  with  richly  embroidered  cravats, 
and  curious  linen.  And  as  she  pried  about  his  room,  she  saw,  oh, 
such  a  beautiful  dressing-case,  with  silver  mountings,  and  a  quantity 
of  lovely  rings  and  jewellery.  And  he  had  a  new  French  watch  and 
gold  chain,  in  place  of  the  big  old  chronometer,  with  its  bunch  of 
jingling  seals,  which  had  hung  from  the  fob  of  John  Pendennis,  and  by 
the  second-hand  of  which  the  defunct  doctor  had  felt  many  a  patient's 
pulse  in  his  time.  It  was  but  a  few  months  back  Pen  had  longed  for 
this  watch,  which  he  thought  the  most  splendid  and  august  time-piece 
in  the  world ;  and  just  before  he  went  to  college,  Helen  had  taken  it 
out  of  her  trinket-box  (where  it  had  remained  unwound  since  the  death 
of  her  husband)  and  given  it  to  Pen  with  a  solemn  and  appropriate 
little  speech  respecting  his  father's  virtues  and  the  proper  use  of  time. 
This  portly  and  valuable  chronometer  Pen  now  pronounced  to  be  out 
of  date,  and  indeed  made  some  comparisons  between  it  and  a  warming- 
pan,  which  Laura  thought  disrespectful,  and  he  left  the  watch  in  a 
drawer,  in  the  company  of  soiled  primrose  gloves,  cravats  which  had 
gone  out  of  favour,  and  of  that  other  school  watch  which  has  once 
before  been  mentioned  in  this  history.  Our  old  friend,  Rebecca,  Pen 
pronounced  to  be  no  longer  up  to  his  weight,  and  swopped  her  away 
for  another  and  more  powerful  horse,  for  which  he  had  to  pay  rather 
a  heavy  figure.  Mrs.  Pendennis  gave  the  boy  the  money  for  the  new 
horse ;  and  Laura  cried  when  Rebecca  was  fetched  away. 

Also  Pen  brought  a  large  box  of  cigars  branded  Colorados,  Afran- 
cesados,  Telescopies^  Fudson,  Oxford  Street,  or  by  some  such  strange 
titles,  and  began  to  consume  these  not  only  about  the  stables  and 
green-houses,  where  they  were  very  good  for  Helen's  plants,  but  in  his 
own  study, —  which  practice  his  mother  did  not  at  first  approve.  But 
he  was  at  work  upon  a  prize  poem,  he  said,  and  could  not  compose 
without  his  cigar,  and  quoted  the  late  lamented  Lord  Byron's  lines  in 
favour  of  the  custom  of  smoking.  As  he  was  smoking  to  such  good 
purpose,  his  mother  could  not,  of  course,  refuse  permission :  in  fact, 
the  good  soul  coming  into  the  room  one  day  in  the  midst  of  Pen's 
labours  (he  was  consulting  a  novel  which  had  recently  appeared,  for 
the  cultivation  of  the  light  literature  of  his  own  country  as  well  as  of 
foreign  nations  became  every  student) — Helen,  we  say,  coming  into 
the  room  and  finding  Pen  on  the  sofa  at  this  work,  rather  than  disturb 
him  went  for  a  light-box  and  his  cigar-ca'je  to  his  bed  room  which  was 


PENDENNIS.  167 

adjacent,  and  actually  put  the  cigar  into  his  mouth  and  hghted  the 
match  at  which  he  kindled  it.  Pen  laughed,  and  kissed  his  mother's 
hand  as  it  hung  fondly  over  the  back  of  the  sofa.  "  Dear  old  mother," 
he  said,  "  if  I  were  to  tell  you  to  burn  the  house  down,  I  think  you 
would  do  it."  And  it  is  very  likely  that  Mr.  Pen  was  right,  and 
that  the  foolish  woman  would  have  done  almost  as  much  for  him  as 
he  said. 

Besides  the  works  of  English  "light  literature"  which  this  diligent 
student  devoured,  he  brought  down  boxes  of  the  light  literature  of  the 
neighbouring  country  of  France  :  into  the  leaves  of  which  when  Helen 
dipped,  she  read  such  things  as  caused  her  to  open  her  eyes  with 
wonder.  But  Pen  showed  her  that  it  was  not  he  who  made  the  books, 
though  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  he  should  keep  up  his  French 
by  an  acquaintance  with  the  most  celebrated  writers  of  the  day,  and 
that  it  was  as  clearly  his  duty  to  read  the  eminent  Paul  de  Kock,  as  to 
study  Swift  or  Moliere.  And  Mrs.  Pendennis  yielded  with  a  sigh  of 
perplexity.  But  Miss  Laura  was  warned  off  the  books,  both  by  his 
anxious  mother,  and  that  rigid  moralist  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  himself, 
who,  however  he  might  be  called  upon  to  study  every  branch  of  litera- 
ture in  order  to  form  his  mind  and  to  perfect  his  style,  would  by  no 
means  prescribe  such  a  course  of  reading  to  a  young  lady  whose  busi- 
ness in  life  was  very  different. 

In  the  course  of  this  long  vacation  Mr.  Pen  drank  up  the  bin  of 
claret  which  his  father  had  laid  in,  and  of  which  we  have  heard  the 
son  remark  that  there  was  not  a  headache  in  a  hogshead ;  and  this 
wine  being  exhausted,  he  wrote  for  a  further  supply  to  "  his  wine- 
merchants,"  Messrs.  Binney  and  Latham  of  Mark  Lane,  London: 
from  whom,  indeed,  old  Doctor  Portman  had  recommended  Pen  to 
get  a  supply  of  port  and  sherry  on  going  to  college.  "  You  will  have, 
no  doubt,  to  entertain  your  young  friends  at  Boniface  witli  wine 
parties,"  the  honest  rector  had  remarked  to  the  lad.  "  They  used  to 
be  customary  at  college  in  my  time,  and  I  would  advise  you  to  employ 
an  honest  and  respectable  house  in  London  for  your  small  stock  of 
wine,  rather  than  to  have  recourse  to  the  Oxbridge  tradesmen,  whose 
liquor,  if  I  remember  rightly,  was  both  deleterious  in  quality  and 
exorbitant  in  price."  And  the  obedient  young  gentleman  took  the 
Doctor's  advice,  and  patronised  Messrs.  Binney  and  Latham  at  the 
rector's  suggestion. 

So  when  he  wrote  orders  for  a  stock  of  wine  to  be  sent  down  to 
the  cellars  at  Fairoaks,  he  hinted  that  Messrs.  B.  and  L.  miglit  send 
in  his  university  account  for  wine  at  the  same  time  with  the  Fairoaks 
bill.  The  poor  widow  was  frightened  at  the  amount.  But  Pen  laughed 
at  her  old-fashioned  views,  said  that  the  bill  was  moderate,  that  every- 
body drank  claret  and  champagne  now,  and,  fmally,  the  widow  paid. 


i6S  PEXDENNIS. 

feeling  dimly  that  the  expenses  of  her  household  were  increasing  con- 
siderably, and  that  her  narrow  income  would  scarce  suffice  to  meet 
them.  But  they  were  only  occasional.  Pen  merely  came  home  for  a 
few  weeks  at  the  vacation.  Laura  and  she  might  pinch  when  he  was 
gone.  In  the  brief  time  he  was  with  them  ought  they  not  to  make 
him  happy  ? 

Arthurs  own  allowances  were  liberal  all  this  time ;  indeed,  much 
more  so  than  those  of  the  sons  of  far  more  wealthy  men.  Years 
before,  the  thrifty  and  affectionate  John  Pendennis,  whose  darling 
project  it  had  ever  been  to  give  his  son  a  university  education,  and 
those  advantages  of  which  his  ov/n  father's  extravagance  had  deprived 
him,  had  begun  laying  by  a  store  of  money  which  he  called  Arthurs 
Education  Fund.  Year  after  year  in  his  book  his  executors  found 
entries  of  sums  vested  as  A.E.F.,  and  during  the  period  subsequent  to 
her  husband's  decease,  and  before  Pen's  entry  at  college,  the  widow 
had  added  sundry  sums  to  this  fund,  so  that  when  Arthur  went  up  to 
Oxbridge  it  reached  no  inconsiderable  amount.  Let  him  be  liberally 
allowanced,  was  Major  Pendennis's  maxim.  Let  him  make  his  first 
entree  into  the  world  as  a  gentleman,  and  take  his  place  with  men  of 
good  rank  and  station ;  after  giving  it  to  him,  it  will  be  his  own  duty 
to  hold  it.  There  is  no  such  bad  policy  as  stinting  a  boy — or  putting 
him  on  a  lower  allowance  than  his  fellows.  Arthar  will  have  to  face 
the  world  and  fight  for  himself  presently.  ^leanwhile  we  shall  have 
procured  for  him  good  friends,  gentlemanly  habits,  and  have  him  well 
backed  and  well  trained  against  the  time  when  the  real  struggle 
comes.  And  these  liberal  opinions  the  Major  probably  advanced 
both  because  they  were  just,  and  because  he  was  not  dealing  with 
his  own  money. 

Thus  young  Pen,  the  only  son  of  an  estated  country'  gentleman, 
with  a  good  allowance,  and  a  gentlemanlike  bearing  and  person, 
looked  to  be  a  lad  of  much  more  consequence  than  he  was  really ; 
and  was  held  by  the  Oxbridge  authorities,  tradesmen,  and  under- 
graduates, as  quite  a  young  buck  and  member  of  the  aristocracy.  His 
manner  was  frank,  brave,  and  perhaps  a  little  impertinent,  as  becomes 
a  high-spirited  youth.  He  was  perfectly  generous  and  free-handed 
with  his  money,  which  seemed  pretty  plentiful.  He  loved  joviality, 
and  had  a  good  voice  for  a  song.  Boat-racing  had  not  risen  in  Pen's 
time  to  the  fureur  which,  as  we  are  given  to  understand,  it  has  since 
attained  in  the  university ;  and  riding  and  tandem-driving  were  the 
fashions  of  the  ingenuous  youth.  Pen  rode  well  to  hounds,  appeared 
in  pink,  as  became  a  young  buck,  and  not  particularly  extravagant  in 
equestrian  or  any  other  amusement,  yet  managed  to  run  up  a  fine  bill 
at  Nile's,  the  livery-stable  keeper,  and  in  a  number  of  other  quarters. 
In  fact,  this  lucky  young  gentleman  had  almost  every  taste  to  a  con- 


PENDENNIS.  169 

siderable  degree.  He  was  very  fond  of  books  of  all  sorts :  Doctor 
Portman  had  taught  him  to  like  rare  editions,  and  his  own  taste  led 
him  to  like  beautiful  bindings.  It  was  marvellous  what  tall  copies, 
and  gilding,  and  marbling,  and  blind-tooling,  the  booksellers  and 
binders  put  upon  Pen's  book-shelves.  He  had  a  very  fair  taste  in 
matters  of  art,  and  a  keen  relish  for  prints  of  a  high  school — none  of 
your  French  Opera  Dancers,  or  tawdry  Racing  Prints,  such  as  had 
delighted  the  simple  eyes  of  Mr.  Spicer,  his  predecessor — but  your 
Stranges,  and  Rembrandt  etchings,  and'Wilkies  before  the  letter, 
with  which  his  apartments  were  furnished  presently  in  the  most 
perfect  good  taste,  as  was  allowed  in  the  university,  where  this  young 
fellow  got  no  small  reputation.  We  have  mentioned  that  he  exhibited 
a  certain  partiality  for  rings,  jewellery,  and  tine  raiment  of  all  sorts ; 
and  it  must  be  owned  that  Mr.  Pen,  during  his  time  at  the  university, 
was  rather  a  dressy  man,  and  loved  to  array  himself  in  splendour. 
He  and  his  polite  friends  would  dress  themselves  out  with  as  much 
care  in  order  to  go  and  dine  at  each  other's  rooms,  as  other  folks 
would  who  were  going  to  enslave  a  mistress.  They  said  he  used  to 
wear  rings  over  his  kid  gloves,  which  he  always  denies ;  but  what 
follies  will  not  youth  perpetrate  with  its  own  admirable  gravity  and 
simplicity  ^  That  he  took  perfumed  baths  is  a  truth ;  and  he  used 
to  say  that  he  took  them  after  meeting  certain  men  of  a  very  low  sot 
in  hall. 

In  Pen's  second  year,  when  Miss  Fotheringay  made  her  chief  hit 
in  London,  and  scores  of  prints  were  published  of  her,  Pen  had  one  of 
these  hung  in  his  bed-room,  and  confided  to  the  men  of  his  set  how 
awfully,  how  wildly,  how  madly,  how  passionately,  he  had  loved  that 
woman.  He  showed  them  in  confidence  the  verses  that  he  had  written 
to  her,  and  his  brow  would  darken,  his  eyes  roll,  his  chest  heave  with 
emotion  as  he  recalled  that  fatal  period  of  his  life,  and  described  the 
woes  and  agonies  which  he  had  suffered.  The  verses  were  copied  out, 
handed  about,  sneered  at,  admired,  passed  from  coterie  to  coterie. 
There  are  few  things  which  elevate  a  lad  in  the  estimation  of  his 
brother  boys  more  than  to  have  a  character  for  a  great  and  romantic 
passion.  Perhaps  there  is  something  noble  in  it  at  all  times — among 
very  young  men,  it  is  considered  heroic — Pen  was  pronounced  a 
tremendous  fellow.  They  said  he  had  almost  committed  suicide  :  that 
he  had  fought  a  duel  with  a  baronet  about  her.  Freshmen  pointed 
him  out  to  each  other.  As  at  the  promenade  time  at  two  o'clock  he 
swaggered  out  of  college,  surrounded  by  his  cronies,  he  was  famous  to 
behold.  He  was  elaborately  attired.  He  would  ogle  the  ladies  who 
came  to  lionise  the  University,  and  passed  before  him  on  the  arms  of 
happy  gownsmen,  and  give  his  opinion  upon  their  personal  charms,  or 
their  toilettes,  with  the  gravity  of  a  critic  v/hose  experience  entitled 


170  PENDEXiXIS. 

him  to  speak  with  authority.  ■Men  used  to  say  that  they  had  been 
walking  with  Pendennis,  and  were  as  pleased  to  be  seen  in  his  com- 
pany as  some  of  us  would  be  if  we  walked  with  a  duke  down  Pall  Mall. 
He  and  the  Proctor  capped  each  other  as  they  met,  as  if  they  were 
rival  powers,  and  the  men  hardly  knew  which  was  the  greater. 

In  fact,  in  the  course  of  his  second  year,  Arthur  Pendennis  had 
become  one  of  the  men  of  fashion  in  the  university.  It  is  curious  to 
watch  that  facile  admiration,,  and  simple  fidelity  of  youth.  They  hang 
round  a  leader :  and  wonder  at  him,  and  love  him,  and  imitate  him. 
No  generous  boy  ever  lived,  I  suppose,  that  has  not  had  some  wonder- 
ment of  admiration  for  another  boy ;  and  Monsieur  Pen  at  Oxbridge 
had  his  school,  his  faithful  band  of  friends,  and  his  rivals.  When  the 
young  men  heard  at  the  haberdashers'  shops  that  Mr.  Pendennis,  of 
Boniface,  had  just  ordered  a  crimson  satin  cravat,  you  would  see  a 
couple  of  dozen  crimson  satin  cravats  in  Main  Street  in  the  course  of 
the  week — and  Simon,  the  Jeweller,  was  known  to  sell  no  less  than 
two  gross  of  Pendennis  pins,  from  a  pattern  which  the  young  gentle- 
man had  selected  in  his  shop. 

Now  if  any  person  with  an  arithmetical  turn  of  mind  will  take  the 
trouble  to  calculate  what  a  sum  of  money  it  would  cost  a  young  man 
to  indulge  freely  in  all  the  above  propensities  which  Ave  have  said 
Mr.  Pen  possessed,  it  will  be  seen  that  a  young  fellow,  with  such 
liberal  tastes  and  amusements,  must  needs  in  the  course  of  two  or 
three  years  spend  or  owe  a  very  handsome  sum  of  money.  We  have 
said  our  friend  Pen  had  not  a  calculating  turn.  No  one  propensity  of 
his  was  outrageously  extravagant :  and  it  is  certain  that  Paddington's 
tailors  account ;  Guttlebury's  cook's  bill  for  dinners ;  Dilley  Tandy's 
bill  with  Finn,  the  print-seller,  for  Raphael-Morghens,  and  Landseer 
proofs,  and  Wormall's  dealings  with  Parkton,  the  great  bookseller,  for 
Aldine  editions,  black-letter  folios,  and  richly  illuminated  Missals  of 
the  XVI,  Centurj^;  and  Snaffle's  or  Foker's  score  with  Nile  the  horse- 
dealer,  were,  each  and  all  of  them,  incomparably  greater  than  any 
little  bills  which  ISIr.  Pen  might  run  up  with  the  above-mentioned 
tradesmen.  But  Pendennis  of  Boniface  had  the  advantage  over  all 
these  young  gentlemen,  his  friends  and  associates,  of  a  universality  of 
taste:  and  whereas  young  Lord  Paddington  did  not  care  twopence 
for  the  most  beautiful  print,  or  to  look  into  any  gilt  frame  that  had 
not  a  mirror  within  it :  and  Guttlebury  did  not  mind  in  the  least  how 
he  was  dressed,  and  had  an  aversion  for  horse  exercise,  nay  a  terror 
of  it ;  and  Snaffle  never  read  any  printed  works  but  the  "  Racino- 
Calendar,"  or  "  Bell's  Life,"  or  cared  for  any  manuscript  except  his 
greasy  little  scrawl  of  a  betting-book: — our  catholic-minded  young 
friend  occupied  himself  in  every  one  of  the  branches  of  science  or 
pleasure  above  mentioned,  and  distinguished  himself  tolerablv  in  each. 


PENDENNIS.  171 

Hence  young  Pen  got  a  prodigious  reputation   in  the  university, 
and  was  hailed  as  a  sort  of  Crichton  ;  and  as  for  the  EngHsh  verse 
prize,  in  competition  for  which  we  have  seen  him  busily  engaged  at 
Fairoaks,  Jones  of  Jesus  carried  it  that  year  certainly,  but  the  under- 
graduates thought  Pen's  a  much  finer  poem,  and  he  had  his  verses 
printed  at  his  own  expense,  and  distributed  in  gilt  morocco  covers 
amongst  his  acquaintance.     I   found  a  copy  of  it  lately  in  a  dusty 
corner  of  Mr.  Pen's  bookcases,  and  have  it  before  me  this  minute, 
bound  up  in  a  collection  of  old  Oxbridge  tracts,  university  statutes, 
prize  poems  by  successful  and  unsuccessful  candidates,  declamations 
recited    in    the    college   chapel,    speeches    delivered    at    the    Union 
Debating  Society,    and    inscribed    by   Arthur    with    his    name    and 
college,  Pendennis — Boniface  ;  or  presented  to  him  by  his  affection- 
ate  friend    Thompson    or   Jackson,    the   author.      How   strange   the 
epigraphs  look  in  those  half-boyish  hands,  and  what  a  thrill  the  sight 
of  the  documents  gives  one  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  lustres !     How 
fate,   since   that   time,  has  removed   some,    estranged   others,    dealt 
awfully   with   all.     Many   a   hand   is   cold   that   wrote   those   kindly 
memorials  and  that  we  pressed  in  the  confident  and  generous  grasp 
of  youthful  friendship.      What  passions  our  friendships  were  in  those 
old  days,  how  artless  and  void  of  doubt !      How  the  arm  you  were 
never  tired  of  having  linked  in  yours  under  the  fair  college  avenues 
or   by  the  river  side,  where  it  washes  Magdalen  Gardens,  or  Christ 
Church  Meadows,  or  winds  by  Trinity  and  King's,  was  withdrawn  of 
necessity,  when  you  entered  presently  the  world,  and  each  parted  to 
push  and   struggle  for  himself  through   the  great  mob  on   the    way 
through  life  !    Are  we  the  same  men  now  that  wrote  those  inscriptions 
— that  read  those  poems  ?  that  delivered   or  heard  those  essays  and 
speeches  so  simple,  so  pompous,  so  ludicrously  solemn  ;  parodied  so 
artlessly  from  books,  and  spoken  with  smug  chubby  faces,  and  such 
an  admirable  aping  of  wisdom  and  gravity  ?      Here  is  the  book  before 
me:  it  is  scarcely  fifteen   years   old.      Here  is  Jack  moaning  with 
despair  and  Byronic   misanthropy,   whose  career   at   the   university 
was  one  of  unmixed  milk-punch.      Here  is  Tom's  daring  Essay  in 
defence  of  suicide  and  of  republicanism  in  general,  apropos  oi  the  death 
of  Roland  and  the  Girondins — Tom's,  who  wears  the  starchcst  tie  in 
all  the  diocese,  and  would  go  to  Smithfield  rather  than  eat  a  beef- 
steak on  a  Friday  in  Lent.     Here  is  Bob,  of  the Circuit,  who  has 

made  a  fortune  in  Railroad  Committees,— bellowing  out  with  Tancrcd 
and  Godfrey,  "  On  to  the  breach,  ye  soldiers  of  the  Cross,  Scale  the 
red  wall  and  swim  the  choking  foss.  Ye  dauntless  archers,  twang 
your  cross-bows  well ;  On,  bill  and  battle-axe  and  mangonel !  Ply 
battering-ram  and  hurtling  catapult,  Jerusalem  is  ours— id  Detis  viilt." 
After  which  comes  a  mellifluous  description  of  the  gardens  of  Sharon 


I  -z  PEXDENNIS. 

and  the  maids  of  Salem,  and  a  prophecy  that  roses  shall  deck  the 
entire  countr)'  of  Syria,  and  a  speedy  reign  of  peace  be  established 
— all  in  undeniably  decasyllabic  lines,  and  the  queerest  aping  of  sense 
and  sentiment  and  poetr)'.  And  there  are  essays  and  poems  along 
with  these  grave  parodies,  and  boyish  exercises  (which  are  at  once 
frank  and  false,  and  so  mirthful,  yet,  somehow,  so  mournful),  by 
youthful  hands,  that  shall  never  write  more.  Fate  has  interposed 
darkly,  and  the  young  voices  are  silent,  and  the  eager  brains  have 
ceased  to  work.  This  one  had  genius  and  a  great  descent,  and 
seemed  to  be  destined  for  honours  which  now  are  of  little  worth  to 
him  :  that  had  virtue,  learning,  genius — everj-  faculty  and  endowment 
which  might  secure  love,  admiration,  and  worldly  fame :  an  obscure 
and  solitar}'  churchyard  contains  the  grave  of  many  fond  hopes,  and 
the  pathetic  stone  which  bids  them  farewell.  I  saw  the  sun  shining 
on  it  in  the  fall  of  last  year,  and  heard  the  sweet  village  choir  raising 
anthem»s  round  about.  What  boots  whether  it  be  Westminster  or  a 
little  country  spire  which  covers  your  ashes,  or  if,  a  few  days  sooner  or 
later,  the  world  forgets  you  ? 

Amidst  these  friends  then,  and  a  host  more.  Pen  passed  more  than 
two  brilliant  and  happy  years  of  his  life.  He  had  his  fill  of  pleasure 
and  popularity.  No  dinner  or  supper  party  was  complete  without 
him;  and  Pen's  jovial  wit,  and  Pen's  songs,  and  dashing  courage,  and 
frank  and  manly  bearing,  charmed  all  the  undergraduates.  Though 
he  became  the  favourite  and  leader  of  young  men  who  were  much  his 
superiors  in  wealth  and  station,  he  was  much  too  generous  to  endeavour 
to  propitiate  them  by  any  meanness  or  cringing  on  his  own  part,  and 
would  not  neglect  the  humblest  man  of  his  acquaintance  in  order  to 
curr\-  favour  with  the  richest  young  grandee  in  the  university.  His 
name  is  still  remembered  at  the  Union  Debating  Club,  as  one  of  the 
brilliant  orators  of  his  day.  By  the  way,  from  having  been  an  ardent 
Tory  in  his  freshman's  year,  his  principles  took  a  sudden  turn  after- 
wards, and  he  became  a  liberal  of  the  most  violent  order.  He  avowed 
himself  a  Dantonist,  and  asserted  that  Louis  the  Sixteenth  was  served 
right.  And  as  for  Charles  the  First,  he  vowed  that  he  would  chop  off 
that  monarch's  head  with  his  own  right  hand  were  he  then  in  the  room 
at  the  Union  Debating  Club,  and  had  Cromwell  no  other  executioner 
for  the  traitor.  He  and  Lord  Magnus  Charters,  the  Marquis  of 
Runnymede's  son  before  mentioned,  were  the  most  ti-uculent  repub- 
licans of  their  day. 

There  are  reputations  of  this  sort  made  quite  independent  of  the 
collegiate  hierarchy,  in  the  republic  of  gownsmen.  A  man  may  be 
famous  in  the  Honour-lists  and  entirely  unknown  to  the  undergra- 
duates :  who  elect  kings  and  chieftains  of  their  own,  whom  they  admire 
and  obey,  as  negro-gangs  have  private  black  sovereigns  in  their  own 


PENDENNIS. 


173 


body,  to  whom  they  pay  an  occult  obedience,  besides  that  wkich  they 
pubHcly  profess  for  their  owners  and  drivers.  Among  the  young  ones 
Pen  became  famous  and  popular:  not  that  he  did  much,  but  there 
was  a  general  determination  that  he  could  do  a  great  deal  if  he  chose. 
"  Ah,  if  Pendennis  of  Boniface  would  but  try,"  the  men  said,  "  he 
might  do  anything."  He  was  backed  for  the  Greek  Ode  won  by 
Smith  of  Trinity ;  everybody  was  sure  he  would  have  the  Latin 
hexameter  prize,  which  Brown  of  St.  John's,  however,  carried  off,  and 
in  this  way  one  university  honour  after  another  was  lost  by  him,  until, 
after  two  or  three  failures,  Mr.  Pen  ceased  to  compete.  But  he  got  a 
declamation  prize  in  his  own  college,  and  brought  home  to  his  mother 
and  Laura  at  Fairoaks  a  set  of  prize-books  begilt  with  the  college 
arms,  and  so  big,  well-bound,  and  magnificent,  that  these  ladies  thought 
there  had  been  no  such  prize  ever  given  in  a  college  before  as  this  of 
Pen's,  and  that  he  had  won  the  very  largest  honour  which  Oxbridge 
was  capable  of  awarding. 

As  vacation  after  vacation  and  term  after  term  passed  away  with- 
out the  desired  news  that  Pen  had  sate  for  any  scholarship  or  won  any 
honour.  Doctor  Portman  grew  mightily  gloomy  in  his  behaviour 
towards  Arthur,  and  adopted  a  sulky  grandeur  of  deportment  towards 
him,  which  the  lad  returned  by  a  similar  haughtiness.  One  vaca- 
tion he  did  not  call  upon  the  Doctor  at  all,  much  to  his  mother's 
annoyance,  who  thought  that  it  was  a  privilege  to  enter  the  Rectory- 
house  at  Clavering,  and  listened  to  Dr.  Portman's  antique  jokes  and 
stories,  though  ever  so  often  repeated,  with  unfailing  veneration.  "  I 
cannot  stand  the  Doctor's  patronising  air,"  Pen  said.  "  He's  too  kind 
to  me,  a  great  deal  too  fatherly.  I  have  seen  in  the  world  better  men 
than  him,  and  I  am  not  going  to  bore  myself  by  listening  to  his  dull 
old  stories."  The  tacit  feud  between  Pen  and  the  Doctor  made  the 
widow  nervous,  so  that  she  too  avoided  Portman,  and  was  afraid  to  go 
to  the  Rectory  when  Arthur  was  at  home. 

One  Sunday  in  the  last  long  vacation,  the  wretched  boy  pushed 
his  rebellious  spirit  so  far  as  not  to  go  to  church,  and  he  was  seen  at 
the  gate  of  the  Clavering  Arms  smoking  a  cigar,  in  the  face  of  the 
congregation  as  it  issued  from  St.  Mary's.  There  was  an  awful  sensa- 
tion in  the  village  society,  Portman  prophesied  Pen's  ruin  after  that, 
and  groaned  in  spirit  over  the  rebellious  young  prodigal. 

So  did  Helen  tremble  in  her  heart,  and  Little  Laura — Laura  had 
grown  to  be  a  fine  young  stripling  by  this  time,  graceful  and  fair, 
clinging  round  Helen  and  worshipping  her,  with  a  passionate  affection. 
Both  of  these  women  felt  that  their  boy  was  changed.  He  was  no 
longer  the  artless  Pen  of  old  days,  so  brave,  so  artless,  so  impetuous, 
and  tender.  His  face  looked  careworn  and  haggard,  his  voice  had  a 
deeper  sound,  and  tones  more  sarcastic.     Care  seemed  to  be  pursuing 


174  PENDENNIS. 

him  ;  but  he  only  laughed  when  his  mother  questioned  him,  and 
parried  her  anxious  queries  with  some  scornful  jest.  Nor  did  he 
spend  much  of  his  vacations  at  home :  he  went  on  visits  to  one  great 
friend  or  another,  and  scared  the  quiet  pair  at  Fairoaks  by  stories  of 
great  houses  whither  he  had  been  invited,  and  by  talking  of  lords 
without  their  titles. 

Honest  Harry  Foker,  who  had  been  the  means  of  introducing 
Arthirr  Pendennis  to  that  set  of  young  men  at  the  university,  from 
whose  society  and  connections  Arthur's  uncle  expected  that  the  lad 
would  get  so  much  benefit ;  who  had  called  for  Arthur's  first  song  at 
his  first  supper-party;  and  who  had  presented  him  at  the  Barmecide 
Club,  where  none  but  the  very  best  men  of  Oxbridge  were  admitted 
(it  consisted  in  Pen's  time  of  six  noblemen,  eight  gentlemen-pensioners, 
and  twelve  of  the  most  select  commoners  of  the  university),  soon 
found  himself  left  far  behind  by  the  young  freshman  in  the  fashion- 
able world  of  Oxbridge,  and  being  a  generous  and  worthy  fellow, 
without  a  spark  of  envy  in  his  composition,  was  exceedingly  pleased 
at  the  success  of  his  young  protege,  and  admired  Pen  quite  as  much 
as  any  of  the  other  youth  did.  It  was  he  who  followed  Pen  now,  and 
quoted  his  sayings ;  learned  his  songs,  and  retailed  them  at  minor 
supper-parties,  and  was  never  weary  of  hearing  them  from  the  gifted 
young  poet's  own  mouth — for  a  good  deal  of  the  time  which  Mr.  Pen 
might  have  employed  much  more  advantageously  in  the  pursuit  of 
the  regular  scholastic  studies,  was  given  up  to  the  composition  of 
secular  ballads,  which  he  sang  about  at  parties  according  to  university 
wont. 

It  had  been  as  well  for  Arthur  if  the  honest  Foker  had  remained 
for  some  time  at  college,  for,  with  all  his  vivacity,  he  was  a  prudent 
young  man,  and  often  curbed  Pen's  propensity  to  extravagance :  but 
Poker's  collegiate  career  did  not  last  very  long  after  Arthur's  entrance 
at  Boniface.  Repeated  differences  with  the  university  authorities 
caused  Mr.  Foker  to  quit  Oxbridge  in  an  untimely  manner.  He 
W'ould  persist  in  attending  races  on  the  neighbouring  Hungerford 
Heath,  in  spite  of  the  injunctions  of  his  academic  superiors.  He 
never  could  be  got  to  frequent  the  chapel  of  the  college  with  that 
regularity  of  piety  which  Alma  Mater  demands  from  her  children ; 
tandems,  which  are  abominations  in  the  eyes  of  the  heads  and  tutors, 
were  Foker's  greatest  delight,  and  so  reckless  was  his  driving  and 
frequent  the  accidents  and  upsets  out  of  his  drag,  that  Pen  called 
taking  a  drive  with  him  taking  the  "Diversions  of  Purley;"  finally, 
having  a  dinner-party  at  his  rooms  to  entertain  some  friends  from 
London,  nothing  would  satisfy  Mr.  Foker  but  painting  Mr.  Buck's 
door  vermilion,  in  which  freak  he  was  caught  by  the  proctor ;  and 
although  young  Black  Strap,  the  celebrated  negro  fighter,  who  was 


fENDENNIS.  175 

one  of  Mr.  Faker's  distinguished  guests,  and  was  holding  the  can  of 
paint  while  the  young  artist  operated  on  the  door,  knocked  down  two 
of  the  proctor's  attendants,  and  performed  prodigies  of  valour,  yet 
these  feats  rather  injured  than  served  Foker,  whom  the  proctor  knew 
very  well  and  who  was  taken  with  the  brush  in  his  hand,  summarily 
convened  and  sent  down  from  the  university. 

The  tutor  wrote  a  very  kind  and  feeling  letter  to  Lady  Agnes  on 
the  subject,  stating  that  everybody  was  fond  of  the  youth ;  that  he 
never  meant  harm  to  any  mortal  creature ;  that  he  for  his  own  part 
would  have  been  delighted  to  pardon  the  harmless  little  boyish  frolic, 
had  not  its  unhappy  publicity  rendered  it  impossible  to  look  the  freak 
over,  and  breathing  the  most  fervent  wishes  for  the  young  fellow's 
welfare — wishes  no  doubt  sincere,  for  Foker,  as  we  know,  came  of  a 
noble  family  on  his  mother's  side,  and  on  the  other  was  heir  to  a  great 
number  of  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

"  It  don't  matter,"  said  Foker,  talking  over  the  matter  with  Pen, 
— "  a  little  sooner  or  a  little  later,  what  is  the  odds  ?  I  should  have 
been  plucked  for  my  little  go  again,  I  know  I  should — that  Latin  I 
cannot  screw  into  my  head,  and  my  mamma's  anguish  would  have 
broke  out  next  term.  The  Governor  will  blow  like  an  old  grampus, 
I  know  he  will, — well,  we  must  stop  till  he  gets  his  wind  again.  I 
shall  probably  go  abroad  and  improve  my  mind  with  foreign  travel. 
Yes,  parly  vods  the  ticket.  It'ly,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I'll  go  to 
Paris,  and  learn  to  dance  and  complete  my  education.  But  it's  not 
me  I'm  anxious  about.  Pen.  As  long  as  people  drink  beer  I  don't 
care, — it's  about  you  I'm  doubtful,  my  boy.  You're  going  too  fast, 
and  can't  keep  up  the  pace,  I  tell  you.  It's  not  the  fifty  you  owe  me, 
— pay  it  or  not  when  you  like, — but  it's  the  every-day  pace,  and  I  tell 
you  it  will  kill  you.  You're  livin'  as  if  there  was  no  end  to  the  money 
in  the  stockin'  at  home.  You  oughtn't  to  give  dinners,  you  ought  to 
eat  'em.  Fellows  are  glad  to  have  you.  You  oughtn't  to  owe  horse 
bills,  you  ought  to  ride  other  chaps'  nags.  You  know  no  more  about 
betting  than  I  do  about  algebra :  the  chaps  will  win  your  money  as 
sure  as  you  sport  it.  Hang  me  if  you  are  not  trying  at  everything.  I 
saw  you  sit  down  to  ccarte  last  week  at  Trumpington's,  and  taking 
your  turn  with  the  bones  after  Ringwood's  supper.  They'll  beat  you 
at  it.  Pen,  my  boy,  even  if  they  play  on  the  square,  which  I  don't  say 
they  don't,  nor  which  I  don't  say  they  do,  mind.  Hut  /  won't  play 
with  'em.  You're  no  match  for  'em.  You  ain't  up  to  their  weight. 
It's  like  little  Black  Strap  standing  up  to  Tom  Spring,— the  Black's  a 
pretty  fighter,  but.  Law  bless  you,  his  arm  ain't  long  enough  to  touch 
Tom, — and  I  tell  you,  you're  going  it  with  fellers  beyond  your  weight. 
Look  here — If  you'll  promise  me  never  to  bet  nor  touch  a  box  nor  a 
card,  I'll  let  you  off  the  two  ponies." 


1)6  FENDENXIS. 

But  Pen,  laughingly,  said,  "  that  though  it  wasn't  convenient  to 
him  to  pay  the  two  ponies  at  that  moment,  he  by  no  means  wished  to 
be  let  off  any  just  debts  he  owed ; "  and  he  and  Foker  parted,  not 
without  many  dark  forebodings  on  the  latter's  part  with  regard  to  his 
friend,  who  Harry  thought  was  travelling  speedily  on  the  road  to  ruin. 

"  One  must  do  at  Rome  as  Rome  does,"  Pen  said,  in  a  dandified 
manner,  jingling  some  sovereigns  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.  "  A  little 
quiet  play  at  ecarte  can't  hurt  a  man  who  plays  pretty  well — I  came 
away  fourteen  sovereigns  richer  from  Ringwood's  supper,  and,  gad !  I 
wanted  the  money." — And  he  walked  off,  after  having  taken  leave  of 
poor  Foker,  who  went  away  without  any  beat  of  drum,  or  offer  to  drive 
the  coach  out  of  Oxbridge,  to  superintend  a  little  dinner  which  he  was 
going  to  give  at  his  own  rooms  in  Boniface,  about  which  dinners,  the 
cook  of  the  college,  who  had  a  great  respect  for  Mr.  Pendennis,  always 
took  especial  pains  for  his  young  favourite. 


PENDENNIS.  171 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

rake's  progress. 

So  in  Pen's  second  year  Major  Pendennis  paid  a  brief  visit  to  his 
nephew,  and  was  introduced  to  several  of  Pen's  university 
friends — the  gentle  and  polite  Lord  Plinlimmon,  the  gallant  and  open- 
hearted  Magnus  Charters,  the  sly  and  witty  Harland;  the  intrepid 
Ringwood,  who  was  called  Rupert  in  the  Union  Debating  Club,  from 
his  opinions  and  the  bravery  of  his  blunders ;  Broadbent,  styled  Bare- 
bones  Broadbent  from  the  republican  nature  of  his  opinions  (he  was 
of  a  dissenting  family  from  Bristol,  and  a  perfect  Boanerges  of 
Debate) ;  and  Bloundell-Bloundell,  whom  Mr.  Pen  entertained  at  a 
dinner  whereof  his  uncle  was  the  chief  guest. 

The  Major  said,  "  Pen,  my  boy,  your  dinner  went  off  a  nicr^'cillc ; 
you  did  the  honours  very  nicely — you  carved  well — I  am  glad  you 
learned  to  carve — it  is  done  on  the  side-board  now  in  most  good 
houses,  but  is  still  an  important  point,  and  may  aid  you  in  middle  life 
— young  Lord  Plinlimmon  is  a  very  amiable  young  man,  cjuite  the 
image  of  his  dear  mother  (whom  I  knew  as  Lady  Aquila  Brownbill)  ; 
and  Lord  Magnus's  republicanism  will  wear  off— it  sits  prettily  enough 
on  a  young  patrician  in  early  life,  though  nothing  is  so  loathsome 
among  persons  of  our  rank — Wx.  Broadbent  seems  to  have  much 
eloquence  and  considerable  reading ;  your  friend  Foker  is  always 
delightful;  but  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Bloundell,  struck  me  as  in  all 
respects  a  most  ineligible  young  man." 

"Bless  my  soul,  sir,  Bloundell-Bloundell!"  cried  Pen,  laughing: 
"  why,  sir,  he's  the  most  popular  man  of  the  university.     He  was  in 

the  ■ Dragoons  before  he  came  up.     We  elected  him  of  the 

Barmecides  the  first  week  he  came  up — had  a  special  meeting  on 
purpose — he's  of  an  excellent  family — Suffolk  Bloundells,  descended 
from  Richard's  Blondel,  bear  a  harp  in  chief— and  motto  O  Mong 
Roy." 

"A  man  may  have  a  very  good  coat-of-arms,  and  be  a  tiger,  ray 
boy,"  the  Major  said,  chipping  his  egg ;  "  that  man  is  a  tiger,  mark 
my  word — a  low  man.  I  will  lay  a  wager  that  he  left  his  regiment, 
which  was  a  good  one  (for  a  more  respectable  man  than  my  friend, 
Lord  Martingale,  never  sat  in  a  saddle),  in  bad  odour.     There  is  the 

12 


178  PENDENNIS. 

unmistakable  look  of  slang  and  bad  habits  about  this  Mr.  Bloundell. 
He  frequents  low  gambling-houses  and  billiard  hells,  sir — he  haunts 
third-rate  clubs— I  know  he  does.  I  know  by  his  style.  I  never  was 
mistaken  in  my  man  yet.  Did  you  remark  the  quantity  of  rings  and 
jewellery  he  wore?  That  person  has  Scamp  written  on  his  coun- 
tenance, if  any  man  ever  had.  Mark  my  words  and  avoid  him.  Let 
us  turn  the  conversation.  The  dinner  was  a  leelle  too  fine,  but  I  don't 
object  to  your  making  a  few  extra /ra/V  when  you  receive  friends.  Of 
course  you  don't  do  it  often,  and  only  those  whom  it  is  your  interest 
to  fcter.  The  cutlets  were  excellent,  and  the  j-(7/</^^' uncommonly  light 
and  good.  The  third  bottle  of  champagne  was  not  necessary ;  but 
you  have  a  good  income,  and  as  long  as  you  keep  within  it,  I  shall  not 
quarrel  with  you,  my  dear  boy." 

Poor  Pen !  the  worthy  uncle  little  knew  how  often  those  dinners 
took  place,  while  the  reckless  young  Amphitryon  delighted  to  show  his 
hospitality  and  skill  in  gourjnandise.  There  is  no  art  about  which 
boys  are  more  anxious  to  have  an  air  of  knowingness.  A  taste  and 
knowledge  of  wines  and  cookery  appears  to  them  to  be  the  sign  of  an 
accomplished  rojie  and  manly  gentleman.  Pen,  in  his  character  of 
Admirable  Crichton,  thought  it  necessary-  to  be  a  great  judge  and 
practitioner  of  dinners ;  we  have  just  said  how  the  college  cook 
respected  him,  and  shall  soon  have  to  deplore  that  that  worthy  man 
so  blindly  trusted  our  Pen.  In  the  third  year  of  the  lad's  residence 
at  Oxbridge,  his  staircase  was  by  no  means  encumbered  with  dish- 
covers  and  desserts,  and  waiters  carrying  in  dishes,  and  skips  opening 
ided  champagne ;  crowds  of  different  sorts  of  attendants,  with  faces 
sulky  or  piteous,  hung  about  the  outer  oak,  and  assailed  the  unfor- 
tunate lad  as  he  issued  out  of  his  den. 

Nor  did  his  guardian's  advice  take  any  effect,  or  induce  Mr.  Pen  to 
avoid  the  society  of  the  disreputable  Mr.  Bloundell. 

The  young  magnates  of  the  neighbouring  great  College  of  St. 
George's,  who  regarded  Pen,  and  in  whose  society  he  lived,  were  not 
taken  in  by  Bloundell's  flashy  graces,  and  rakish  airs  of  fashion. 
Broadbent  called  him  Captain  Macheath,  and  said  he  would  live  to  be 
hanged.  Foker,  during  his  brief  stay  at  the  university  with  Macheath, 
with  characteristic  caution,  declined  to  say  anj'thing  in  the  Captain's 
disfavour,  but  hinted  to  Pen  that  he  had  better  have  him  for  a  partner 
at  whist  than  play  against  him,  and  better  back  him  at  ecarte  than  bet 
on  the  other  side.  "  You  see,  he  plays  better  than  you  do,  Pen,"  was 
the  astute  young  gentleman's  remark :  "  he  plays  uncommon  well, 
the  Captain  does ; — and.  Pen,  I  wouldn't  take  the  odds  too  freely  fron\ 
him,  if  I  was  you.  I  don't  think  he's  too  flush  of  money,  the  Captain 
ain't."  But  beyond  these  dark  suggestions  and  generalities,  the 
cautious  Foker  could  not  be  got  to  speak. 


PENDENNIS.  179 

Not  that  his  advice  would  have  had  more  weight  with  a  headstrong 
young  man,  than  advice  commonly  has  with  a  lad  who  is  determined 
on  pursuing  his  own  way.  Pen's  appetite  for  pleasure  was  insatiable, 
and  he  i-ushed  at  it  wherever  it  presented  itself,  with  an  eagerness 
which  bespoke  his  fiery  constitution  and  youthful  health.  He  called 
taking  pleasure  "seeing  hfe,"  and  quoted  well-known  maxims  from 
Terence,  from  Horace,  from  Shakspeare,  to  show  that  one  should  do 
all  that  might  become  a  man.  He  bade  fair  to  be  utterly  used  up  and 
a  roue,  in  a  few  years,  if  he  were  to  continue  at  the  pace  at  which  he 
was  going. 

One  night  after  a  supper-party  in  college,  at  which  Pen  and  Mac- 
heath  had  been  present,  and  at  which  a  little  quiet  vingt-et-un  had 
been  played,  as  the  men  had  taken  their  caps  and  were  going  away, 
after  no  great  losses  or  winnings  on  any  side,  Mr.  Bloundell  play- 
fully took  up  a  green  wine-glass  from  the  supper-table,  which  had 
been  destined  to  contain  iced  cup,  but  into  which  he  inserted  some- 
thing still  more  pernicious,  namely  a  pair  of  dice,  which  the  gentleman 
took  out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  put  into  the  glass.  Then  giving 
the  glass  a  graceful  wave  which  showed  that  his  hand  was  quite 
experienced  in  the  throwing  of  dice,  he  called  seven's  the  main,  and 
whisking  the  ivory  cubes  gently  on  the  table,  swept  them  up  lightly 
again  from  the  cloth,  and  repeated  this  process  two  or  three  times. 
The  other  men  looked  on,  Pen,  of  course,  among  the  number,  who 
had  never  used  the  dice  as  yet,  except  to  play  a  humdrum  game  of 
backgammon  at  home. 

Mr.  Bloundell,  who  had  a  good  voice,  began  to  troll  out  the  chorus 
from  Robert  the  Devil,  an  Opera  then  in  great  vogue,  in  which  chorus 
many  of  the  men  joined,  especially  Pen,  who  was  in  very  high  spirits, 
having  won  a  good  number  of  shillings  and  half-crowns  at  the  vingt- 
et-tin — and  presently,  instead  of  going  home,  most  of  the  party  were 
seated  round  the  table  playing  at  dice,  the  green  glass  going  round 
from  hand  to  hand  until  Pen  finally  shivered  it,  after  throwing  six 
mains. 

From  that  night  Pen  plunged  into  the  delights  of  the  game  of 
hazard,  as  eagerly  as  it  was  his  custom  to  pursue  any  new  pleasure. 
Dice  can  be  played  of  mornings  as  well  as  after  dinner  or  supper. 
Bloundell  would  come  into  Pen's  rooms  after  breakfast,  and  it  was 
astonishing  how  quick  the  time  passed  as  the  bones  were  rattling. 
They  had  little  quiet  parties  with  closed  doors,  and  Bloundell  devised 
a  box  lined  with  felt,  so  that  the  dice  should  make  no  noise,  and  their 
tell-tale  rattle  not  bring  the  sharp-cared  tutors  up  to  the  rooms. 
Bloundell,  Ringwood,  and  Pen  were  once  very  nearly  caught  by 
Mr.  Buck,  who,  passing  in  the  quadrangle,  thought  he  heard  the 
words,  "Two  to  one  on  the  caster,''  through  Pen's  open  window;  but 


I  So  PENDENNIS. 

when  the  tutor  got  into  Arthur's  rooms  he  found  the  lads  with  three 
Homers  before  them,  and  Pen  said,  he  was  trying  to  coach  the  two 
other  men,  and  asked  Mr.  Buck  with  great  gravity  what  was  the 
present  condition  of  the  River  Scamander,  and  whether  it  was  navig- 
able or  no  ? 

Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  did  not  win  much  money  in  these  trans- 
actions with  Mr.  Bloundell,  or  indeed  gain  good  of  any  kind  except  a 
knowledge  of  the  odds  at  hazard,  which  he  might  have  learned  out  of 
books. 

One  Easter  vacation,  when  Pen  had  announced  to  his  mother  and 
uncle  his  intention  not  to  go  down,  but  stay  at  Oxbridge  and  read, 
Mr.  Pen  was  nevertheless  induced  to  take  a  brief  visit  to  London  in 
company  with  his  friend  Mr.  BloundelL  They  put  up  at  a  hotel  in 
Covent  Garden,  where  Bloundell  had  a  tick,  as  he  called  it,  and  took 
the  pleasures  of  the  town  verj'  freely  after  the  wont  of  young  university 
men.  Bloundell  still  belonged  to  a  military  club,  whither  he  took  Pen 
to  dine  once  or  twice  (the  young  men  would  drive  thither  in  a  cab, 
trembling  lest  they  should  meet  Major  Pendennis  on  his  beat  in  Pall 
Mall),  and  here  Pen  was  introduced  to  a  number  of  gallant  young 
fellows  with  spurs  and  mustachios,  with  whom  he  drank  pale  ale  of 
mornings  and  beat  the  town  of  a  night.  Here  he  saw  a  deal  of  life, 
indeed  :  nor  in  his  career  about  the  theatres  and  singing-houses  which 
these  roaring  young  blades  frequented,  was  he  very  likely  to  meet  his 
guardian.  One  night,  nevertheless,  they  were  very  near  to  each  other  : 
a  plank  only  separating  Pen,  who  was  in  the  boxes  of  the  Museum 
Theatre,  from  the  Major,  who  was  in  Lord  Steyne's  box,  along  with 
that  venerated  nobleman.  The  Fotheringay  was  in  the  pride  of  her 
glory.  She  had  made  a  hit :  that  is,  she  had  drawn  very  good  houses 
for  nearly  a  year,  had  starred  the  provinces  with  great  eclat,  had  come 
back  to  shine  in  London  with  somewhat  diminished  lustre,  and  now 
was  acting  with  "  ever  increasing  attraction,  &c.,"'  "  triumph  of  the 
good  old  British  drama,"  as  the  play-bills  avowed,  to  houses  in  which 
there  was  plenty  of  room  for  anybody  who  wanted  to  see  her. 

It  was  not  the  first  time  Pen  had  seen  her,  since  that  memorable 
day  when  the  two  had  parted  in  Chatteris.  In  the  previous  year, 
when  the  town  was  making  much  of  her,  and  the  press  lauded  her 
beauty.  Pen  had  found  a  pretext  for  coming  to  London  in  term-time, 
and  had  rushed  off  to  the  theatre  to  see  his  old  flame.  He  recollected 
it  rather  than  renewed  it  He  remembered  how  ardently  he  used  to 
be  on  the  look-out  at  Chatteris,  when  the  speech  before  Ophelia's  or 
Mrs.  nailer's  entrance  on  the  stage  was  made  by  the  proper  actor. 
Now,  as  the  actor  spoke,  he  had  a  sort  of  feeble  thrill :  as  the  house 
began  to  thunder  with  applause,  and  Ophelia  entered  with  her  old 
bow  and  sweeping  curtsey.  Pen  felt  a  slight  shock  and  blushed  very 


PENDENNIS.  1 81 

much  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  could  not  help  thinking  that  all  the 
house  was  regarding  him.  He  hardly  heard  her  for  the  first  part  of 
the  play :  and  he  thought  with  such  rage  of  the  humiliation  to  which 
she  had  subjected  him,  that  he  began  to  fancy  he  was  jealous  and  in 
love  with  her  still.  But  that  illusion  did  not  last  very  long.  He  ran 
round  to  the  stage  door  of  the  theatre  to  see  her  if  possible,  but  he  did 
not  succeed.  She  passed  indeed  under  his  nose  with  a  female  com- 
panion, but  he  did  not  know  her, — nor  did  she  recognize  him.  The 
next  night  he  came  in  late,  and  stayed  very  quietly  for  the  after-piece, 
and  on  the  third  and  last  night  of  his  stay  in  London — why,  Taglioni 
was  going  to  dance  at  the  Opera, — Taglioni!  and  there  was  to  be 
Don  Giovanni,  which  he  admired  of  all  things  in  the  world  :  so 
Mr.  Pen  went  to  Don  Giovanni  and  Taglioni. 

This  time  the  illusion  about  her  was  quite  gone.  She  was  not  less 
handsome,  but  she  was  not  the  same,  somehow.  The  light  was  gone 
out  of  her  eyes  which  used  to  flash  there,  or  Pen's  no  longer  were 
dazzled  by  it.  The  rich  voice  spoke  as  of  old,  yet  it  did  not  make 
Pen's  bosom  thrill  as  fonnerly.  He  thought  he  could  recognize  the 
brogue  underneath:  the  accents  seemed  to  him  coarse  and  false.  It 
annoyed  him  to  hear  the  same  emphasis  on  the  same  words,  only 
uttered  a  little  louder :  worse  than  this,  it  annoyed  him  to  think  that 
he  should  ever  have  mistaken  that  loud  imitation  for  genius,  or  melted 
at  those  mechanical  sobs  and  sighs.  He  felt  that  it  was  in  another  life 
almost,  that  it  was  another  man  who  had  so  madly  loved  her.  He  was 
ashamed  and  bitterly  humiliated,  and  very  lonely.  Ah,  poor  Pen  ! 
the  delusion  is  better  than  the  truth  sometimes,  and  fine  dreams  than 
dismal  waking. 

They  went  and  had  an  uproarious  supper  that  night,  and  Mr.  Pen 
had  a  fine  headache  the  next  morning,  with  which  he  went  back  to 
Oxbridge,  having  spent  all  his  ready  money. 

As  all  this  narrative  is  taken  from  Pen's  own  confessions,  so  that 
the  reader  may  be  assured  of  the  truth  of  every  word  of  it,  and  as  Pen 
himself  never  had  any  accurate  notion  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
spent  his  money,  and  plunged  himself  in  much  deeper  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties, during  his  luckless  residence  at  Oxbridge  University,  it  is,  of 
course,  impossible  for  me  to  give  any  accurate  account  of  his  involve- 
ments, beyond  that  general  notion  of  his  way  of  life,  which  we  have 
sketched  a  few  pages  back.  He  does  not  speak  too  hardly  of  the 
roguery  of  the  university  tradesmen,  or  of  those  in  London  whom  he 
honoured  with  his  patronage  at  the  outset  of  his  career.  Even  Finch, 
the  money-lender,  to  whom  Bloundell  introduced  him,  and  with  whom 
he  had  various  transactions,  in  which  the  young  rascal's  signature 
appeared  upon  stamped  paper,  treated  him,  according  to  Pen's  own 
account,  with  forbearance,  and  never  mulcted  him  of  more  than  a 


i82  PEXDENNIS. 

hundred  per  cent.  The  old  college  cook,  his  fervent  admirer,  made 
him  a  private  bill,  offered  to  send  him  in  dinners  up  to  the  very  last, 
and  never  would  have  pressed  his  account  to  his  dying  day.  There 
was  that  kindness  and  frankness  about  Arthur  Pendennis,  which  won 
most  people  who  came  in  contact  with  him,  and  which,  if  it  rendered 
him  an  easy  prey  to  rogues,  got  him,  perhaps,  more  goodwill  than  he 
merited  from  many  honest  men.  It  was  impossible  to  resist  his  good 
nature,  or,  in  his  worst  moments,  not  to  hope  for  his  rescue  from  utter 
ruin. 

At  the  time  of  his  full  career  of  university  pleasure,  he  would  leave 
the  gayest  party  to  go  and  sit  with  a  sick  friend.  He  never  knew  the 
difference  between  small  and  great  in  the  treatment  of  his  acquaint- 
ances, however  much  the  unlucky  lad's  tastes,  which  were  of  the 
sumptuous  order,  led  him  to  prefer  good  society;  he  was  only  too 
ready  to  share  his  guinea  with  a  poor  friend,  and  when  he  got  money 
had  an  irresistible  propensity  for  paying,  which  he  never  could 
conquer  through  life. 

In  his  third  year  at  college,  the  duns  began  to  gather  awfully 
round  about  him,  and  there  was  a  levee  at  his  oak  which  scandalized 
the  tutors,  and  v/ould  have  scared  many  a  stouter  heart.  With  some 
of  these  he  used  to  battle,  some  he  would  bully  (under  Mr.  Bloundell's 
directions,  who  was  a  master  in  this  art,  though  he  took  a  degree  in 
no  other),  and  some  deprecate.  And  it  is  reported  of  him  that  little 
INIary  Frodsham,  the  daughter  of  a  certain  poor  gilder  and  frame- 
maker,  whom  Mr.  Pen  had  thought  fit  to  employ,  and  who  had  made 
a  number  of  beautiful  frames  for  his  fine  prints,  coming  to  Pendermis 
with  a  piteous  tale  that  her  father  was  ill  with  ague,  and  that  there  was 
an  execution  in  their  house,  Pen  in  an  anguish  of  remorse  rushed  away, 
pawned  his  grand  watch  and  ever)'  single  article  of  jeweller}'  except 
two  old  gold  sleeve-buttons,  which  had  belonged  to  his  father,  and 
rushed  with  the  proceeds  to  Frodsham's  shop,  where,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  and  the  deepest  repentance  and  humility,  he  asked  the  poor 
tradesman's  pardon. 

This,  young  gentlemen,  is  not  told  as  an  instance  of  Pen"s  virtue, 
but  rather  of  his  weakness.  It  would  have  been  much  more  virtuous 
to  have  had  no  prints  at  all.  He  still  owed  for  the  baubles  which  he 
sold  in  order  to  pay  Frodsham's  bill,  and  his  mother  had  cruelly  to 
pinch  herself  in  order  to  discharge  the  jeweller's  account,  so  that  she 
was  in  the  end  the  sufferer  by  the  lad's  impertinent  fancies  and  follies. 
We  are  not  presenting  Pen  to  you  as  a  hero  or  a  model,  onlv  as  a  lad, 
who,  in  the  midst  of  a  thousand  vanities  and  weaknesses,  has  as  yet 
some  generous  impulses,  and  is  not  altogether  dishonest. 

We  have  said  it  was  to  the  scandal  of  Mr.  Buck  the  tutor  that 
Pen's  extravagances  became  known :   from  the  manner  in  which  he 


PENDENI^IS.  183 

entered  college,  the  associates  he  kept,  and  the  introductions  of 
Doctor  Portman  and  the  Major,  Buck  for  a  long  time  thought  that  his 
pupil  was  a  man  of  large  property,  and  wondered  rather  that  he  only 
wore  a  plain  gown.  Once  on  going  up  to  London  to  the  levee  with 
an  address  from  his  Majesty's  Loyal  University  of  Oxbridge,  Buck 
had  seen  Major  Pendennis  at  St.  James's,  in  conversation  with  two 
knights  of  the  Garter,  in  the  carriage  of  one  of  whom  the  dazzled  tutor 
saw  the  Major  whisked  away  after  the  levee.  He  asked  Pen  to  wine 
the  instant  he  came  back,  let  him  off  from  chapels  and  lectures  more 
than  ever,  and  felt  perfectly  sure  that  he  was  a  young  gentleman  of 
large  estate. 

Thus,  he  was  thunderstruck  when  he  heard  the  truth,  and  received 
a  dismal  confession  from  Pen.  His  university  debts  were  large,  and 
the  tutor  had  nothing  to  do,  and  of  course  Pen  did  not  acquaint  him, 
with  his  London  debts.  What  man  ever  does  tell  all  when  pressed  by 
his  friends  about  his  liabilities  ?  The  tutor  learned  enough  to  know 
that  Pen  was  poor,  that  he  had  spent  a  handsome,  almost  a  magnificent 
allowance,  and  had  raised  around  him  such  a  fine  crop  of  debts,  as  it 
would  be  very  hard  work  for  any  man  to  mow  down :  for  there  is  no 
plant  that  grows  so  rapidly  when  once  it  has  taken  root. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  so  tender  and  good  that  Pen  was 
terrified  lest  his  mother  should  know  of  his  sins.  "  I  can't  bear  to 
break  it  to  her,"  he  said  to  the  tutor  in  an  agony  of  grief.  "  O  !  sir,  Pve 
been  a  villain  to  her" — and  he  repented,  and  he  wished  he  had  the 
time  to  come  over  again,  and  he  asked  himself,  "  Why,  why  did  his 
uncle  insist  upon  the  necessity  of  living  with  great  people,  and  in  how 
much  did  all  his  grand  acquaintance  profit  him  ?" 

They  were  not  shy,  but  Pen  thought  they  were,  and  slunk  from 
them  during  his  last  terms  at  college.  He  was  as  gloomy  as  a  death's- 
head  at  parties,  which  he  avoided  of  his  own  part,  or  to  which  his 
young  friends  soon  ceased  to  invite  him.  Everybody  knew  that  Pen- 
dennis was  "  hard  up."  That  man  Bloundell,  who  could  pay  nobody, 
and  who  was  obliged  to  go  down  after  three  terms,  was  his  ruin,  the 
men  said.  His  melancholy  figure  might  be  seen  shirking  about  the 
lonely  quadrangles  in  his  battered  old  cap  anci  torn  gown,  and  he  who 
had  been  the  pride  of  the  university  but  a  year  before,  the  man  whom 
all  the  young  ones  loved  to  look  at,  was  now  the  object  of  conversa- 
tion at  freshmen's  wine-parties,  and  they  spoke  of  him  with  wonder 
and  awe. 

At  last  came  the  Degree  Examinations.  Many  a  young  man  of  his 
year  whose  hobnailed  shoes  Pen  had  derided,  and  whose  face  or  coat 
he  had  caricatured — many  a  man  whom  he  had  treated  with  scorn  in 
the  lecture-room  or  crushed  with  his  gloquence  in  the  debating-club — 
many  of  his  own  set  who  had  not  half  his  brains,  but  3- little  regularity 


1 84  PENDENNIS. 

and  constancy  of  occupation,  took  high  places  in  the  honours  or  passed 
with  decent  credit.  And  where  in  the  list  was  Pen  the  superb,  Pen 
the  wit  and  dandy,  Pen  the  poet  and  orator  ?  Ah,  where  was  Pen  the 
widow's  darling  and  sole  pride  ?  Let  us  hide  our  heads,  and  shut  up 
the  page.  The  lists  came  out;  and  a  dreadful  rumour  rushed  through 
the  university,  that  Pendennis  of  Boniface  was  plucked. 


PENDENNIS.  185 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FLIGHT  AFTER  DEFEAT, 

DURING  the  latter  part  of  Pen's  residence  at  the  University  of 
Oxbridge,  his  uncle's  partiality  had  greatly  increased  for  the 
lad.  The  Major  was  proud  of  Arthur,  who  had  high  spirits,  frank 
manners,  a  good  person,  and  high  gentlemanlike  bearing.  It  pleased 
the  old  London  bachelor  to  see  Pen  walking  with  the  young  patricians 
of  his  university,  and  he  (who  was  never  known  to  entertain  his  friends, 
and  whose  stinginess  had  passed  into  a  sort  of  byword  among  some 
wags  at  the  Club,  who  envied  his  many  engagements,  and  did  not 
choose  to  consider  his  poverty)  was  charmed  to  give  his  nephew  and 
the  young  lords  snug  little  dinners  at  his  lodgings,  and  to  regale  them 
with  good  claret,  and  his  very  best  bons  mots  and  stories :  some  of 
which  would  be  injured  by  the  repetition,  for  the  Major's  manner  of 
telling  them  was  incomparably  neat  and  careful ;  and  others,  whereof 
the  repetition  would  do  good  to  nobody.  He  paid  his  court  to  their 
parents  through  the  young  men,  and  to  himself  as  it  were  by  their 
company.  He  made  more  than  one  visit  to  Oxbridge,  where  the 
young  fellows  were  amused  by  entertaining  the  old  gentleman,  and 
gave  parties  and  breakfasts,  and  fetes,  partly  to  joke  him  and  partly 
to  do  him  honour.  He  plied  them  with  his  stories.  He  made  him- 
self juvenile  and  hilarious  in  the  company  of  the  young  lords.  He 
went  to  hear  Pen  at  a  grand  debate  at  the  Union,  crowed  and  cheered, 
and  rapped  his  stick  in  chorus  with  the  cheers  of  the  men,  and  was 
astounded  at  the  boy's  eloquence  and  fire.  He  thought  he  had  got  a 
young  Pitt  for  a  nephew.  He  had  an  almost  paternal  fondness  for 
Pen.  He  wrote  to  the  lad  letters  with  playful  advice  and  the  news  of 
the  town.  He  bragged  about  Arthur  at  his  Clubs,  and  introduced 
him  with  pleasure  into  his  conversation ;  saying,  that,  egad,  the  young 
fellows  were  putting  the  old  ones  to  the  wall ;  that  the  lads  who  were 
coming  up,  young  Lord  Plinlimmon,  a  friend  of  my  boy,  young  Lord 
Magnus  Charters,  a  chum  of  my  scapegrace,  (Sec,  would  make  a  greater 
figure  in  the  world  than  ever  their  fathers  had  done  before  them.  He 
asked  permission  to  bring  Arthur  to  a  grand  fete  at  Gaunt  House; 
saw  him  with  ineffable  satisfaction  dancing  with  the  sisters  of  the 
young  noblemen  before  mentioned ;  and  gave  himself  as  much  trouble 


1 86  PENDENNIS. 

to  procure  cards  of  invitation  for  the  lad  to  some  good  houses,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  mamma  with  a  daughter  to  marry,  and  not  an  old  half-pay 
officer  in  a  wig.  And  he  boasted  everywhere  of  the  boy's  great  talents, 
and  remarkable  oratorical  powers  ;  and  of  the  brilliant  degree  he  was 
going  to  take.  Lord  Runnymede  would  take  him  on  his  embassy,  or 
the  Duke  would  bring  him  in  for  one  of  his  boroughs,  he  wrote  over 
and  over  again  to  Helen ;  who,  for  her  part,  was  too  ready  to  believe 
anything  that  anybody  chose  to  say  in  favour  of  her  son. 

And  all  this  pride  and  affection  of  uncle  and  mother  had  been 
trampled  down  by  Pen's  wicked  extravagance  and  idleness  !  I  don't 
envy  Pen's  feelings  (as  the  phrase  is),  as  he  thought  of  what  he  had 
done.  He  had  slept,  and  the  tortoise  had  won  the  race.  He  had 
marred  at  its  outset  what  might  have  been  a  brilliant  career.  He 
had  dipped  ungenerously  into  a  generous  mother's  purse ;  basely  and 
recklessly  spilt  her  little  cruse.  O  !  it  was  a  coward  hand  that  could 
strike  and  rob  a  creature  so  tender.  And  if  Pen  felt  the  wrong  which 
he  had  done  to  others,  are  we  to  suppose  that  a  young  gentleman  of 
his  vanity  did  not  feel  still  more  keenly  the  shame  he  had  brought 
upon  himself  ?  Let  us  be  assured  that  there  is  no  more  cruel  remorse 
than  that ;  and  no  groans  more  piteous  than  those  of  wounded  self- 
love.  Like  Joe  Miller's  friend,  the  Senior  Wrangler,  who  bowed  to 
the  audience  from  his  box  at  the  play,  because  he  and  the  king 
happened  to  enter  the  theatre  at  the  same  time,  only,  with  a  fatuity 
by  no  means  so  agreeable  to  himself,  poor  Arthur  Pendennis  felt 
perfectly  convinced  that  all  England  would  remark  the  absence  of  his 
name  from  the  examination-lists,  and  talk  about  his  misfortune.  His 
wounded  tutor,  his  many  duns,  the  skip  and  bed-maker  who  waited 
upon  him,  the  undergraduates  of  his  own  time  and  the  years  below 
him,  whom  he  had  patronised  or  scorned — how  could  he  bear  to  look 
any  of  them  in  the  face  now  1  He  rushed  to  his  rooms,  into  which 
he  shut  himself,  and  there  he  penned  a  letter  to  his  tutor,  full  of 
thanks,  regards,  remorse,  and  despair,  requesting  that  his  name  might 
be  taken  off  the  college  books,  and  intimating  a  wish  and  expectation 
that  death  would  speedily  end  the  woes  of  the  disgraced  Arthur 
Pendennis. 

Then  he  slunk  out,  scarcely  knowing  whither  he  went,  but 
mechanically  taking  the  unfrequented  little  lanes  by  the  backs  of 
the  colleges,  until  he  cleared  the  university  precincts,  and  got  down 
to  the  banks  of  the  Camisis  river,  now  deserted,  but  so  often  alive 
with  the  boat-races,  and  the  crowds  of  cheering  gownsmen,  he 
wandered  on  and  on,  until  he  found  himself  at  some  miles'  distance 
from  Oxbridge,  or  rather  was  found  by  some  acquaintance,  leaving 
that  city. 

As  Pen  went  up  a  hill,  a  drizzling  January  rain  beating  in  his  face, 


PENBENNIS.  187 

and  his  ragged  gown  tiying  behind  him — for  he  had  not  divested  him- 
self of  his  academical  garments  since  the  morning — a  postchaise  came 
ratthng  up  the  road,  on  the  box  of  which  a  servant  was  seated,  whilst 
within,  or  rather  half  out  of  the  carriage  window,  sate  a  young  gentle- 
man smoking  a  cigar,  and  loudly  encouraging  the  postboy.  It  was 
our  young  acquaintance  of  Baymouth,  Mr.  Spavin,  who  had  got  his 
degree,  and  was  driving  homewards  in  triumph  in  his  yellow  post- 
chaise.  He  caught  a  sight  of  the  figure,  madly  gesticulating  as  he 
worked  up  the  hill,  and  of  poor  Pen's  pale  and  ghastly  face  as  the 
chaise  whirled  by  him. 

"  Wo ! '"'  roared  Mr.  Spavin  to  the  postboy,  and  the  horses  stopped 
in  their  mad  career,  and  the  carriage  pulled  up  some  fifty  yards  before 
Pen.  He  presently  heard  his  own  name  shouted,  and  beheld  the  upper 
half  of  the  body  of  Mr.  Spavin  thrust  out  of  the  side-window  of  the 
vehicle,  and  beckoning  Pen  vehemently  towards  it. 

Pen  stopped,  hesitated — nodded  his  head  fiercely,  and  pointed 
onwards,  as  if  desirous  that  the  postilion  should  proceed.  He  did  not 
speak  :  but  his  countenance  must  have  looked  very  desperate,  for 
young  Spavin,  having  stared  at  him  with  an  expression  of  blank  alarm, 
jumped  out  of  the  carriage  presently,  ran  towards  Pen  holding  out  his 
hand,  and  grasping  Pen's,  said,  "  I  say — hullo,  old  boy,  where  are  you 
going,  and  what's  the  row  now  } " 

"  I'm  going  where  I  deserve  to  go,"  said  Pen  with  an  imprecation. 
"  This  ain't  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Spavin,  smiling.  "  This  is  the 
Fenbury  road.  I  say,  Pen,  don't  take  on  because  you  are  plucked. 
It's  nothing  when  you  are  used  to  it.  I've  been  plucked  three  times, 
old  boy— and  after  the  first  time  I  didn't  care.  Glad  it's  over,  though. 
You'll  have  better  luck  next  time." 

Pen  looked  at  his  early  acquaintance, — who  had  been  plucked, 
who  had  been  rusticated,  who  had  only,  after  repeated  failures,  learned 
to  read  and  write  correctly,  and  who,  in  spite  of  all  these  drawbacks, 
had  attained  the  honour  of  a  degree.  "  This  man  has  passed,"  he 
thought,  "and  I  have  failed!"  It  was  almost  too  much  for  him 
to  bear. 

"  Good-bye,  Spavin,"  said  he ;   "  I'm  very  glad  you  are  through. 
Don't  let  me  keep  you ;  I'm  in  a  hurry— I'm  going  to  town  to-night." 
"  Gammon,"  said  Mr.  Spavin.     "  This  ain't  the  way  to  town  ;  this 
16  the  Fenbury  road,  I  tell  you." 

"  I  was  just  going  to  turn  back,"  Pen  said. 

"  All  the  coaches  are  full  with  the  men  going  down,"  Spavin  said. 
Pen  winced.  "  You'd  not  get  a  place  for  a  ten-pound  note.  Get  into 
my  yellow;  I'll  drop  you  at  Mudford,  where  you  have  a  chance  of  the 
Fenbury  mail.  I'll  lend  you  a  hat  and  a  coat ;  I've  got  lots.  Come 
along  ;  jump  in,  old  boy— go  it,  leathers  !  "—and  in  this  way  Pen  found 


1 88  PENDENNIS. 

himself  in  Mr.  Spavin's  postchaise,  and  rode  with  that  gentleman  as 
far  as  the  Ram  Inn  at  Mudford,  fifteen  miles  from  Oxbridge ;  where 
the  Fenbury  mail  changed  horses,  and  where  Pen  got  a  place  on  to 
London. 

The  next  day  there  was  an  immense  excitement  in  Boniface 
College,  Oxbridge,  where,  for  some  time,  a  rumour  prevailed,  to  the 
terror  of  Pen's  tutor  and  tradesmen,  that  Pendennis,  maddened  at 
losing  his  degree,  had  made  away  with  himself — a  battered  cap,  in 
which  his  name  was  almost  discernible,  together  with  a  seal  bearing 
his  crest  of  an  eagle  looking  at  a  now  extinct  sun,  had  been  found 
three  miles  on  the  Fenbury  road,  near  a  mill-stream  ;  and,  for  four  and- 
twenty  hours,  it  was  supposed  that  poor  Pen  had  flung  himself  into  the 
stream,  until  letters  arrived  from  him,  bearing  the  London  post-mark. 

The  mail  reached  London  at  the  dreary  hour  of  five ;  and  he 
hastened  to  the  inn  at  Covent  Garden,  at  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  put  up,  where  the  ever-wakeful  porter  admitted  him,  and  showed 
him  to  a  bed.  Pen  looked  hard  at  the  man,  and  wondered  whether 
Boots  knew  he  was  plucked?  When  in  bed  he  could  not  sleep  there. 
He  tossed  about  until  the  appearance  of  the  dismal  London  daylight, 
when  he  sprang  up  desperately,  and  walked  off  to  his  uncle's  lodgings 
in  Bury  Street ;  where  the  maid,  who  was  scouring  the  steps,  looked 
up  suspiciously  at  him,  as  he  came  with  an  unshaven  face,  and  yester- 
day's linen.     He  thought  she  knew  of  his  mishap,  too. 

"  Good  'evens  !  Mr.  Harthur,  what  'as  'appened,  sir.'"  Mr.  Morgan, 
the  valet,  asked,  who  had  just  arranged  the  well-brushed  clothes  and 
shiny  boots  at  the  door  of  his  masters  bed-room,  and  was  carrying  in 
his  wig  to  the  Major. 

'•  I  want  to  see  my  uncle,"  he  cried,  in  a  ghastly  voice,  and  flung 
himself  down  on  a  chair. 

Morgan  backed  before  the  pale  and  desperate-looking  young  man, 
with  terrified  and  wondering  glances,  and  disappeared  into  his  master's 
apartment. 

The  Major  put  his  head  out  of  the  bed-room  door,  as  soon  as  he 
had  his  wig  on. 

"  What  ?  examination  over  ?  Senior  Wrangler,  double  First  Class, 
hay?"  said  the  old  gentleman — "I'll  come  directly;"  and  the  head 
disappeared. 

"  They  don't  know  what  has  happened,"  groaned  Pen  ;  "  what  will 
they  say  when  they  know  all  ?" 

Pen  had  been  standing  with  his  back  to  the  window,  and  to  such  a 
dubious  light  as  Bury  Street  enjoys  of  a  foggy  January  morning,  so 
that  his  uncle  could  not  see  the  expression  of  the  young  man's 
countenance,  or  the  looks  of  gloom  and  despair  which  even  Mr. 
Morgan  had  remarked. 


PEN  DENNIS.  189 

But  when  the  Major  came  out  of  his  dressing-room,  neat  and 
radiant,  and  preceded  by  faint  odours  from  Delcroix's  shop,  from 
which  emporium  Major  Pendennis's  wig  and  his  pocket-handkerchief 
got  their  perfume,  he  held  out  one  of  his  hands  to  Pen,  and  was  about 
addressing  him  in  his  cheery  high-toned  voice,  when  he  caught  sight 
of  the  boy's  face  at  length,  and  dropping  his  hand,  said,  "  Good  God ! 
Pen,  what's  the  matter  ?" 

"  You'll  see  it  in  the  papers  at  breakfast,  sir,"  Pen  said. 

"See  what?" 

"  My  name  isn't  there,  sir." 

"  Hang  it,  why  should  \\.  be  ?"  asked  the  Major,  more  perplexed. 

"  I  have  lost  everything,  sir,"  Pen  groaned  out ;  "  my  honours 
gone;  I'm  ruined  irretrievably;  I  can't  go  back  to  Oxbridge." 

"  Lost  your  honour  ?  "  screamed  out  the  Major.  "  Heaven  alive  ! 
you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have  shown  the  white  feather?" 

Pen  laughed  bitterly  at  the  word  feather,  and  repeated  it.  "  No, 
it  isn't  that,  sir.  I'm  not  afraid  of  being  shot ;  I  wish  to  God  any- 
body would  shoot  me.  I  have  not  got  my  degree.  I — I'm  plucked, 
sir." 

The  Major  had  heard  of  plucking,  but  in  a  very  vague  and  cursory 
way,  and  concluded  that  it  was  some  ceremony  performed  corporally 
upon  rebellious  university  youth.  "  I  wonder  you  can  look  me  in  the 
face  after  such  a  disgrace,  sir,"  he  said :  "  I  wonder  you  submitted  to 
it  as  a  gentleman." 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  sir.  I  did  my  classical  papers  well  enough ;  it 
was  those  infernal  mathematics,  which  I  have  always  neglected." 

"Was  it — was  it  done  in  public,  sir?"  the  Major  said. 

"What?" 

"  The— the  plucking?"  asked  the  guardian,  looking  Pen  anxiously 
in  the  face. 

Pen  perceived  the  error  under  which  his  guardian  was  labouring, 
and  in  the  midst  of  his  misery  the  blunder  caused  the  poor  wretch  a 
faint  smile,  and  served  to  bring  down  the  conversation  from  the  tragedy- 
key,  in  which  Pen  had  been  disposed  to  carry  it  on.  He  explained  to 
his  uncle  that  he  had  gone  in  to  pass  his  examination,  and  failed.  On 
which  the  Major  said,  that  though  he  had  expected  far  better  things 
of  his  nephew,  there  was  no  great  misfortune  in  this,  and  no  dishonour 
as  far  as  he  saw,  and  that  Pen  must  try  again. 

"  Me  again  at  Oxbridge,"  Pen  thought,  "  after  such  a  humiliation 
as  that!"  He  felt  that,  except  he  went  down  to  burn  the  place,  he 
could  not  enter  it. 

But  it  was  when  he  came  to  tell  his  uncle  of  his  debts  that  the 
other  felt  surprise  and  anger  most  keenly,  and  broke  out  into  speeches 
most  severe  upon  Pen,  which  the  lad  bore,  as  best  he  might,  without 


igo  PENDEiVNIS. 

flinching.  He  had  determined  to  make  a  clean  breast,  and  I'.ad 
formed  a  full,  true,  and  complete  list  of  all  his  bills  and  liabilities 
at  the  university,  and  in  London.  They  consisted  of  various  items, 
such  as 

London  Tailor.  Oxbridge  do. 

Oxbridge  do.  Bill  for  horses. 

Haberdasher,  for  shirts  and  gloves.     Printseller. 

Jeweller.  Books. 

College  Cook.  Binding. 

Crump,  for  desserts.  Hairdresser  and  Perfumery. 

Bootmaker.  Hotel  Bill  in  London. 

Wine  Merchant  in  London.  Sundries. 

All  which  items  the  reader  may  fill  in  at  his  pleasure — such  accounts 
have  been  inspected  by  the  parents  of  many  university  youth, — and 
it  appeared  that  Mr.  Pen's  bills  in  all  amounted  to  about  seven 
hundred  pounds ;  and,  furthermore,  it  was  calculated  that  he  had  had 
more  than  twice  that  sum  of  ready  money  during  his  stay  at  Oxbridge. 
This  sum  he  had  spent,  and  for  it  had  to  show — what  ? 

"  You  need  not  press  a  man  who  is  down,  sir,"  Pen  said  to  his 
uncle,  gloomily.  "  I  know  very  well,  how  wicked  and  idle  I  have 
been.  My  mother  won't  like  to  see  me  dishonoured,  sir,"  he  con- 
tinued, with  his  voice  failing ;  "  and  I  know  she  will  pay  these  accounts. 
But  I  shall  ask  her  for  no  more  money." 

"  As  you  like,  sir,"'  the  Major  said.  "  You  are  of  age,  and  my 
hands  are  washed  of  your  affairs.  But  you  can't  live  without  money, 
and  have  no  means  of  making  it  that  I  see,  though  you  have  a  fine 
talent  in  spending  it,  and  it  is  my  belief  that  you  will  proceed  as  you 
have  begun,  and  ruin  your  mother  before  you  are  five  years  older. — 
Good  morning ;  it  is  time  for  me  to  go  to  breakfast.  My  engagements 
won't  permit  me  to  see  you  much  during  the  time  that  you  stav  in 
London.  I  presume  that  you  will  acquaint  your  mother  with  the  news 
which  you  have  just  conveyed  to  me." 

And  pulling  on  his  hat,  and  trembling  in  his  limbs  somewhat, 
Major  Pendennis  walked  out  of  his  lodgings  before  his  nephew,  and 
went  ruefully  off  to  take  his  accustomed  corner  at  the  Club.  He  saw 
the  Oxbridge  examination-lists  in  the  morning  papers,  and  read  over 
the  names,  not  understanding  the  business,  with  mournful  accuracy. 
He  consulted  various  old  fogies  of  his  acquaintance,  in  the  course  of 
the  day,  at  his  Clubs ;  Wenham,  a  Dean,  various  Civilians ;  and,  as  it 
is  called,  "  took  their  opinion,"  showing  to  some  of  them  the  amount 
of  his  nephew's  debts,  which  he  had  dotted  down  on  the  back  of  a 
card,  and  asking  what  was  to  be  done,  and  whether  such  debts  were 
not  monstrous,  preposterous  ?     What  was  to  be  done  ? — There  was 


PFNDENNIS. 


191 


nothing  for  it  but  to  pay.  Wenham  and  the  others  told  the  Major  of 
young  men  who  owed  twice  as  much — five  times  as  muoh — as  Arthur, 
and  with  no  means  at  all  to  pay.  The  consultations  and  calculations, 
and  opinions,  comforted  the  Major  somewhat.  After  all,  he  was  not 
to  pay. 

But  he  thought  bitterly  of  the  many  plans  he  had  formed  to  make 
a  man  of  his  nephew,  of  the  sacrifices  which  he  had  made,  and  of  the 
manner  in  which  he  was  disappointed.  And  he  wrote  off  a  letter  to 
Doctor  Portman,  informing  him  of  the  direful  events  which  had  taken 
place,  and  begging  the  Doctor  to  break  them  to  Helen.  For  the 
orthodox  old  gentleman  preserved  the  regular  routine  in  all  things, 
and  was  of  opinion  that  it  was  more  correct  to  "  break  "  a  piece  of  bad 
news  to  a  person  by  means  of  a  (possibly  maladroit  and  unfeeling) 
messenger,  than  to  convey  it  simply  to  its  destination  by  a  note.  So 
the  Major  wrote  to  Doctor  Portman,  and  then  went  out  to  dinner,  one 
of  the  saddest  men  in  any  London  dining-room  that  day. 

Pen,  too,  wrote  his  letter,  and  skulked  about  London  streets  for  the 
rest  of  the  day,  fancying  that  everybody  was  looking  at  him  and 
whispering  to  his  neighbour,  "  That  is  Pendennis  of  Boniface,  who 
was  plucked  yesterday."  His  letter  to  his  mother  was  full  of  ten- 
derness and  remorse  :  he  wept  the  bitterest  tears  over  it — and  the 
repentance  and  passion  soothed  him  to  some  degree. 

He  saw  a  party  of  roaring  young  blades  from  Oxbridge  in  the 
coffee-room  of  his  hotel,  and  slunk  away  from  them,  and  paced  the 
streets.  He  remembers,  he  says,  the  prints  which  he  saw  hanging  up 
at  Ackermann's  window  in  the  rain,  and  a  book  which  he  read  at  a 
stall  near  the  Temple :  at  night  he  went  to  the  pit  of  the  play,  and  saw 
Miss  Fotheringay,  but  he  doesn't  in  the  least  recollect  in  what  piece. 

On  the  second  day  there  came  a  kind  letter  from  his  tutor,  con- 
taining many  grave  and  appropriate  remarks  upon  the  event  which 
had  befallen  him,  but  strongly  urging  Pen  not  to  take  his  name  off 
the  university  books,  and  to  retrieve  a  disaster  which,  everybody  knew, 
was  owing  to  his  own  carelessness  alone,  and  which  he  might  repair 
by  a  month's  application.  He  said  he  had  ordered  Pen's  skip  to  pack 
up  some  trunks  of  the  young  gentleman's  wardrobe,  which  duly  arrived 
with  fresh  copies  of  all  Pen's  bills  laid  on  the  top. 

On  the  third  day  there  arrived  a  letter  from  Home;  which  Pen 
pjad  in  his  bedroom,  and  the  result  of  which  was  that  he  fell  down  on 
his  knees,  with  his  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  and  there  prayed  out  his 
heart,  and  humbled  himself;  and  having  gone  downstairs  and  eaten 
an  immense  breakfast,  he  sallied  forth  and  took  his  place  at  the  Bull 
and  Mouth,  Piccadilly,  by  the  Chatteris  coach  for  that  evening. 


193  PMNDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

prodigal's  return. 

SUCH  a  letter  as  the  Major  wrote  of  course  sent  Doctor  Portman 
to  Fairoaks,  and  he  went  off  with  that  alacrity  which  a  good 
man  shows  when  he  has  disagreeable  news  to  communicate.  He 
wishes  the  deed  were  done,  and  done  quickly.  He  is  sorr)-,  but  que 
voulez-voHS  ?  the  tooth  must  be  taken  out,  and  he  has  you  into  the 
chair,  and  it  is  surprising  with  what  courage  and  vigour  of  wTist  he 
applies  the  forceps.  Perhaps  he  would  not  be  quite  so  active  or  eager 
if  it  were  his  tooth  ;  but,  in  fine,  it  is  your  duty  to  have  it  out.  So  the 
Doctor,  having  read  the  epistle  out  to  Mira  and  Mrs.  Portman,  with 
many  damnatory  comments  upon  the  young  scapegrace  who  was  going 
deeper  and  deeper  into  perdition,  left  those  ladies  to  spread  the  news 
through  the  Clavering  society,  which  they  did  with  their  accustomed 
accuracy  and  despatch,  and  strode  over  to  Fairoaks  to  break  the 
intelligence  to  the  widow. 

She  had  the  news  already.  She  had  read  Pen's  letter,  and  it  had 
relieved  her  somehow.  A  gloomy  presentiment  of  evil  had  been 
hanging  over  her  for  many,  many  months  past.  She  knew  the  worst 
now,  and  her  darling  boy  was  come  back  to  her  repentant  and  tender- 
hearted. Did  she  want  more  ?  All  that  the  Rector  could  say  (and  his 
remarks  were  both  dictated  by  common  sense,  and  made  respectable 
by  antiquity)  could  not  bring  Helen  to  feel  any  indignation  or  par- 
ticular unhappiness,  except  that  the  boy  should  be  unhappy.  What 
Avas  this  degree  that  they  made  such  an  outcry  about,  and  what  good 
would  it  do  Pen?  Why  did  Doctor  Portmar  and  his  uncle  insist  upon 
sending  the  boy  to  a  place  where  there  was  so  much  temptation  to  be 
risked,  and  so  little  good  to  be  won  ?  Why  didn't  they  leave  him  at 
home  with  his  mother?  As  for  his  debts,  of  course  they  must  be 
paid ; — his  debts  ! — wasn't  his  father's  money  all  his,  and  hadn't  he  a 
right  to  spend  it?  In  this  way  the  widow  met  the  virtuous  Doctor, 
and  all  the  arrows  of  his  indignation  somehow  took  no  effect  upon  her 
gentle  bosom. 

For  some  time  past,  an  agreeable  practice,  known  since  times  ever 
so  ancient,  by  which  brothers  and  sisters  are  wont  to  exhibit  their 
affection  towards  one  another,  and  in  which  Pen  and  his  little  sister 


PENDENNIS.  I9J 

Laura  had  been  accustomed  to  indulge  pretty  frequently  in  their 
childish  days,  had  been  given  up  by  the  mutual  consent  of  those  two 
individuals.  Coming  back  from  college  after  an  absence  from  home 
of  some  months,  in  place  of  the  simple  girl  whom  he  had  left  behind 
him,  Mr.  Arthur  found  a  tall,  slim,  handsome  young  lady,  to  whom  he 
could  not  somehow  proffer  the  kiss  which  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  administering  previously,  and  who  received  him  with  a  gracious 
curtsey  and  a  proffered  hand,  and  with  a  great  blush  which  rose  up  to 
the  cheek,  just  upon  the  very  spot  which  young  Pen  had  been  used 
to  salute. 

I  am  not  good  at  descriptions  of  female  beauty ;  and,  indeed,  do 
not  care  for  it  in  the  least  (thinking  that  goodness  and  virtue  are,  of 
course,  far  more  advantageous  to  a  young  lady  than  any  mere  fleeting 
charms  of  person  and  face),  and  so  shall  not  attempt  any  particular 
delineation  of  Miss  Laura  Bell  at  the  age  of  sixteen  years.  At  that 
age  she  had  attained  her  present  altitude  of  five  feet  four  inches,  so 
that  she  was  called  tall  and  gawky  by  some,  and  a  Maypole  by  others, 
of  her  own  sex,  who  prefer  littler  women.  But  if  she  was  a  Maypole, 
she  had  beautiful  roses  about  her  head,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  many 
swains  were  disposed  to  dance  round  her.  She  was  ordinarily  pale, 
with  a  faint  rose  tinge  in  her  cheeks  ;  but  they  flushed  up  in  a  minute 
when  occasion  called,  and  continued  so  blushing  ever  so  long,  the 
roses  remaining  after  the  emotion  had  passed  away  which  had 
summoned  those  pretty  flowers  into  existence.  Her  eyes  have  been 
described  as  very  large  from  her  earliest  childhood,  and  retained  that 
characteristic  in  later  life.  Good-natured  critics  (always  females)  said 
that  she  was  in  the  habit  of  making  play  with  those  eyes,  and  ogling 
the  gentlemen  and  ladies  in  her  company ;  but  the  fact  is,  that  Nature 
had  made  them  so  to  shine  and  to  look,  and  they  could  no  more  help 
so  looking  and  shining  than  one  star  can  help  being  brighter  than 
another.  It  was  doubtless  to  mitigate  their  brightness  that  Miss  Laura's 
eyes  were  provided  with  two  pairs  of  veils  in  the  shape  of  the  longest 
and  finest  black  eyelashes,  so  that,  when  she  closed  her  eyes,  the  same 
people  who  found  fault  with  those  orbs,  said  that  she  wanted  to  show 
her  eyelashes  off;  and,  indeed,  I  dare  say  that  to  see  her  asleep  would 
have  been  a  pretty  sight. 

As  for  her  complexion,  that  was  nearly  as  brilliant  as  Lady  Man- 
trap's, and  without  the  powder  which  her  ladyship  uses.  Her  nose 
must  be  left  to  the  reader's  imagination:  if  her  mouth  was  rather  large 
(as  Miss  Piminy  avers,  who,  but  for  her  known  appetite,  one  would 
think  could  not  swallow  anything  larger  than  a  button)  everybody 
allowed  that  her  smile  was  charming,  and  showed  off  a  set  of  pearly 
teeth,  whilst  her  voice  was  so  low  and  sweet,  that  to  hear  it  was  like 
listening  to  sweet  music.     Because  she  is  in  the  habit  of  wearing  very 

13 


194  PENDENNIS. 

long  dresses,  people  of  course  say  that  her  feet  are  not  small :  but  it 
may  be,  that  they  are  of  the  size  becoming  her  figure,  and  it  does  not 
follow,  because  Mrs.  Pincher  is  always  putting  her  foot  out,  that  all 
other  ladies  should  be  perpetually  bringing  theirs  on  the  tapis.  In 
fine,  Miss  Laura  Bell,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  was  a  sweet  young  lady. 
Many  thousands  of  such  are  to  be  found,  let  us  hope,  in  this  country, 
where  there  is  no  lack  of  goodness,  and  modesty,  and  purity,  and  beauty. 

Now,  Miss  Laura,  since  she  had  learned  to  think  for  herself  (and 
in  the  past  two  years  her  mind  and  her  person  had  both  developed 
themselves  considerably),  had  only  been  half  pleased  with  Pen's 
general  conduct  and  bearing.  His  letters  to  his  mother  at  home  had 
become  of  late  very  rare  and  short.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  fond 
widow  urged  how  constant  Arthur's  occupations  and  studies  were,  and 
how  many  his  engagements.  "  It  is  better  that  he  should  lose  a  prize," 
Laura  said,  " than  forget  his  mother :  and  indeed, mamma,  I  dont  see 
that  he  gets  many  prizes.  Why  doesn't  he  come  home  and  stay  with 
you,  instead  of  passing  his  vacations  at  his  great  friends'  fine  houses .'' 
There  is  nobody  there  will  love  him  half  as  much  as — as  you  do." 
"As  /do  only,  Laura?"  sighed  out  Mrs.  Pendennis.  Laura  declared 
stoutly  that  she  did  not  love  Pen  a  bit,  when  he  did  not  do  his  dut\-  to 
his  mother:  nor  would  she  be  convinced  by  any  of  Helen's  fond  argu- 
ments, that  the  boy  must  make  his  way  in  the  world ;  that  his  uncle 
was  most  desirous  that  Pen  should  cultivate  the  acquaintance  of  per- 
sons who  were  likely  to  befriend  him  in  life ;  ihat  men  had  a  thousand 
ties  and  caUs  which  women  could  not  understand,  and  so  forth. 
Perhaps  Helen  no  more  believed  in  these  excuses  than  her  adopted 
daughter  did;  but  she  tried  to  believe  that  she  believed  them,  and 
comforted  herself  with  the  maternal  infatuation.  And  that  is  a  point 
whereon  I  suppose  many  a  gentleman  has  retlected,  that,  do  what  we 
win,  we  are  pretty  sure  of  the  woman's  love  that  once  has  been  ours ; 
and  that  that  untiring  tenderness  and  forgiveness  never  fail  us. 

Also,  there  had  been  that  freedom,  not  to  say  audacity,  in  Arthur's 
latter  talk  and  ways,  which  had  shocked  and  displeased  Laura.  Not 
that  he  ever  offended  her  by  rudeness,  or  addressed  to  her  a  word 
which  she  ought  not  to  hear,  for  ^Ir.  Pen  was  a  gentleman,  and  by 
nature  and  education  polite  to  ever\'  woman  high  and  low;  but  he 
spoke  lightly  and  laxly  of  women  in  general ;  was  less  courteous 
in  his  actions  than  in  his  words — neglectful  in  sundry  ways,  and 
in  many  of  the  little  offices  of  life.  It  offended  Miss  Laura  that  he 
should  smoke  his  horrid  pipes  in  the  house ;  that  he  should  refuse  to 
go  to  church  with  his  mother,  or  on  walks  or  visits  with  her,  and  be 
found  yawning  over  his  novel  in  his  dressing-gown,  when  the  gentle 
widow  returned  from  those  duties.  The  hero  of  Laura's  early  infancy, 
about   whom   she  had   passed   so   many,  many  nights   talking  with 


PENDENNIS.  195 

Helen  (who  recited  endless  stories  of  the  boy's  virtues,  and  love,  and 
bravery,  when  he  was  away  at  school),  was  a  very  different  person  from 
the  young  man  whom  now  she  knew ;  bold  and  brilliant,  sarcastic  and 
defiant,  seeming  to  scorn  the  simple  occupations  or  pleasures,  or  even 
devotions,  of  the  women  with  whom  he  lived,  and  whom  he  quitted  on 
such  light  pretexts. 

The  Fotheringay  affair,  too,  when  Laura  came  to  hear  of  it  (which 
she  did  first  by  some  sarcastic  allusions  of  Major  Pendennis,  when  on 
a  visit  to  Fairoaks,  and  then  from  their  neighbours  at  Clavering,  who 
had  plenty  of  information  to  give  her  on  this  head),  vastly  shocked 
and  outraged  Miss  Laura.  A  Pendennis  fling  himself  away  on  such 
a  woman  as  that !  Helen's  boy  galloping  away  from  home,  day  after 
day,  to  fall  on  his  knees  to  an  actress,  and  drink  with  her  horrid 
father !  A  good  son  want  to  bring  such  a  man  and  such  a  woman 
into  his  house,  and  set  her  over  his  mother!  "  I  would  have  runaway, 
mamma;  I  would,  if  I  had  had  to  walk  barefoot  through  the  snow," 
Laura  said. 

"  And /(?«  would  have  left  me  too,  then?"  Helen  answered;  on 
which,  of  course,  Laura  withdrew  her  previous  observation,  and  tha 
two  women  rushed  into  each  other's  embraces  with  that  warmth  which 
belonged  to  both  their  natures,  and  which  characterizes  not  a  few  of 
their  sex.  Whence  came  all  this  indignation  of  Miss  Laura  about 
Arthur's  passion  1  Perhaps  she  did  not  know,  that  if  men  throw 
themselves  away  upon  women,  women  throw  themselves  away  upon 
men,  too ;  and  that  there  is  no  more  accounting  for  love,  than  for 
any  other  physical  liking  or  antipathy :  perhaps  she  had  been  misin- 
formed by  the  Clavering  people  and  old  Mrs.  Portman,  who  was  vastly 
'bitter  against  Pen,  especially  since  his  impertinent  behaviour  to  the 
Doctor,  and  since  the  wretch  had  smoked  cigars  in  church-time; 
perhaps,  finally,  she  was  jealous ;  but  this  is  a  vice  in  which  it  is  said 
the  ladies  very  seldom  indulge. 

Albeit  she  was  angry  with  Pen,  against  his  mother  she  had  no 
such  feeling ;  but  devoted  herself  to  Helen  with  the  utmost  force  of 
her  girlish  affection — such  affection  as  women,  whose  hearts  are  dis-_ 
engaged,  are  apt  to  bestow  upon  the  near  female  friend.  It  was  devo- 
tion;— it  was  passion — it  was  all  sorts  of  fondness  and  folly ;  it  was  a 
profusion  of  caresses,  tender  epithets  and  endearments,  such  as  it  does 
not  become  sober  historians  with  beards  to  narrate.  Do  not  let  us 
men  despise  these  instincts  because  we  cannot  feel  them.  These 
women  were  made  for  our  comfort  and  delectation,  gentlemen — with 
all  the  rest  of  the  minor  animals. 

But  as  soon  as  Miss  Laura  heard  that  Pen  was  unfortunate  and 
unhappy,  all  her  wrath  against  him  straightway  vanished,  and  gave 
place  to  the  most  tender  and  unreasonable  compassion.     He  was  the 


196  PENDEAWIS. 

Pen  of  old  days  once  more  restored  to  her,  the  frank  and  affectionate, 
the  generous  and  tender-hearted.  She  at  once  took  side  with  Helen 
against  Doctor  Portman,  when  he  outcried  at  the  enormity  of  Pen's 
transgressions.  Debts  ?  what  were  his  debts  ?  they  were  a  trifle ;  he 
had  been  thrown  into  expensive  society  by  his  uncle's  order,  and  of 
course  was  obliged  to  live  in  the  same  manner  as  the  young  gentlemen 
whose  company  he  frequented.  Disgraced  by  not  getting  his  degree  ? 
the  poor  boy  was  ill  when  he  went  in  for  the  examinations :  he  couldn't 
think  of  his  mathematics  and  stuff  on  account  of  those  very  debts 
which  oppressed  him;  very  likely  some  of  the  odious  tutors  and 
masters  were  jealous  of  him,  and  had  favourites  of  their  own  whom 
they  wanted  to  put  over  his  head.  Other  people  disliked  him  and 
were  cruel  to  him,  and  were  unfair  to  him,  she  was  very  sure.  And 
so,  with  flushing  cheeks  and  eyes  bright  with  anger,  this  young  creature 
reasoned  ;  and  she  went  up  and  seized  Helen's  hand,  and  kissed  her  in 
the  Doctor's  presence,  and  her  looks  braved  the  Doctor,  and  seemed 
to  ask  how  he  dared  to  say  a  word  against  her  darling  mothers  Pen  ? 

When  that  divine  took  his  leave,  not  a  little  discomfited  and 
amazed  at  the  pertinacious  obstinacy  of  the  women,  Laura  repeated 
her  embraces  and  arguments  with  tenfold  fervour  to  Helen,  who  felt 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  cogency  in  most  of  the  latter.  There 
must  be  some  jealousy  against  Pen.  She  felt  quite  sure  that  he  had 
offended  some  of  the  examiners,  who  had  taken  a  mean  revenge  of 
him — nothing  more  likely.  Altogether,  the  announcement  of  the 
misfortune  vexed  these  two  ladies  very  little  indeed.  Pen,  who  was 
plunged  in  his  shame  and  grief  in  London,  and  torn  with  great 
remorse  for  thinking  of  his  mothers  sorrow,  would  have  wondered, 
had  he  seen  how  easily  she  bore  the  calamity.  Indeed,  calamity  is 
welcome  to  women  if  they  think  it  will  bring  truant  affection  home 
again  :  and  if  you  have  reduced  your  mistress  to  a  crust,  depend  upon 
it  that  she  won't  repine,  and  only  take  a  verj'  little  bit  of  it  for  herself, 
provided  you  will  eat  the  remainder  in  her  company. 

And  directly  the  Doctor  was  gone,  Laura  ordered  fires  to  be  lighted 
in  Mr.  Arthur's  rooms,  and  his  bedding  to  be  aired ;  and  had  these 
preparations  completed  by  the  time  Helen  had  finished  a  most  tender 
and  affectionate  letter  to  Pen :  when  the  girl,  smiling  fondly,  took  her 
mamma  by  the  hand,  and  led  her  into  those  apartments  where  the 
fires  were  blazing  so  cheerfully,  and  there  the  two  kind  creatures  sate 
down  on  the  bed,  and  talked  about  Pen  ever  so  long.  Laura  added  a 
postscript  to  Helen's  letter,  in  which  she  called  him  her  dearest  Pen, 
and  bade  him  come  home  instantly,  with  two  of  the  handsomest 
dashes  under  the  word,  and  be  happy  with  his  mother  and  his  affec- 
tionate sister  Laura. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night — as  these  two  ladies,  after  reading  their 


PENDENNIS.  197 

Bibles  a  great  deal  during  the  evening,  and  after  taking  just  a  look 
into  Pen's  room  as  they  passed  to  their  own — in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  I  say,  Laura,  whose  head  not  unfrequently  chose  to  occupy  that 
pillow  which  the  nightcap  of  the  late  Pendennis  had  been  accustomed 
to  press,  cried  out  suddenly,  "  Mamma,  are  you  awake  ? " 

Helen  stirred  and  said,  "  Yes,  I'm  awake."  The  truth  is,  though 
she  had  been  lying  quite  still  and  silent,  she  had  not  been  asleep  one 
instant,  but  had  been  looking  at  the  night-lamp  in  the  chimney,  and 
had  been  thinking  of  Pen  for  hours  and  hours. 

Then  Miss  Laura  (who  had  been  acting  with  similar  hypocrisy, 
and  lying,  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts,  as  motionless  as  Helen's 
brooch,  with  Pen's  and  Laura's  hair  in  it,  on  the  frilled  white  pin- 
cushion on  the  dressing-table)  began  to  tell  Mrs.  Pendennis  of  a 
notable  plan  which  she  had  been  forming  in  her  busy  little  brains ; 
and  by  which  all  Pen's  embarrassments  would  be  made  to  vanish  in  a 
moment,  and  without  the  least  trouble  to  anybody. 

"  You  know,  mamma,"'  this  young  lady  said,  "  that  I  have  been 
living  with  you  for  ten  years,  during  which  time  you  have  never  taken 
any  of  my  money,  and  have  been  treating  me  just  as  if  I  was  a  charity 
girl.  Now,  this  obligation  has  offended  me  very  much,  because  I  am 
proud  and  do  not  like  to  be  beholden  to  people.  And  as,  if  I  had 
gone  to  school — only  I  wouldn't — it  must  have  cost  me  at  least  fifty 
pounds  a  year,  it  is  clear  that  I  owe  you  fifty  times  ten  pounds,  which 
I  know  you  have  put  into  the  bank  at  Chatteris  for  me,  and  which 
doesn't  belong  to  me  a  bit.  Now,  to  morrow  we  will  go  to  Chatteris, 
and  see  that  nice  old  Mr.  Rowdy,  with  the  bald  head,  and  ask  him  for 
it, — not  for  his  head,  but  for  the  five  hundred  pounds,  and  I  daresay 
he  will  lend  you  two  more,  which  we  will  save  and  pay  back ;  and  we 
will  send  the  money  to  Pen,  who  can  pay  all  his  debts  without  hurting 
anybody,  and  then  we  will  live  happy  ever  after." 

What  Helen  replied  to  this  speech  need  not  be  repeated,  as  the 
widow's  answer  was  made  up  of  a  great  number  of  incoherent  ejacu- 
lations, embraces,  and  other  irrelative  matter.  But  the  two  women 
slept  well  after  that  talk ;  and  when  the  night-lamp  went  out  with  a 
splutter,  and  the  sun  rose  gloriously  over  the  purple  hills,  and  the  birds 
began  to  sing  and  pipe  cheerfully  amidst  the  leafless  trees  and  glisten- 
ing evergreens  on  Fairoaks  lawn,  Helen  woke  too,  and  as  she  looked 
at  the  sweet  face  of  the  girl  sleeping  beside  her,  her  lips  parted  with  a 
smile,  blushes  on  her  cheeks,  her  spotless  bosom  heaving  and  falling 
with  gentle  undulations,  as  if  happy  dreams  were  sweeping  over  it- 
Pen's  mother  felt  happy  and  grateful  beyond  all  power  of  words,  save 
such  as  pious  women  offer  up  to  the  Beneficent  Dispenser  of  love  and 
mercy— in  whose  honour  a  chorus  of  such  praises  is  constantly  rising 
up  all  round  the  world. 


■198  PENDEXNIS. 

Although  it  was  January  and  rather  cold  weather,  so  sincere  was 
Mr.  Pen's  remorse,  and  so  determined  his  plans  of  economy,  that  he 
would  not  take  an  inside  place  in  the  coach,  but  sate  up  behind  with 
his  friend  the  Guard,  who  remembered  his  foiTner  liberality,  and  lent 
him  plenty  of  great-coats.  Perhaps  it  was  the  cold  that  made  his 
knees  tremble  as  he  got  down  at  the  lodge-gate,  or  it  may  be  that 
he  was  agitated  at  the  notion  of  seeing  the  kind  creature  for  whose 
love  he  had  made  so  selfish  a  return.  Old  John  was  in  waiting  to 
receive  his  master's  baggage,  but  he  appeared  in  a  fustian  jacket,  and 
no  longer  wore  his  liver\'  of  drab  and  blue.  "  I'se  gar'ner  and  stable- 
man, and  lives  in  the  ladge  now,"  this  worthy  man  remarked,  with  a 
grin  of  welcome  to  Pen,  and  something  of  a  blush ;  but  instantly  as 
Pen  turned  the  comer  of  the  shrubberj^  and  was  out  of  eye-shot  of  the 
coach,  Helen  made  her  appearance,  her  face  beaming  with  love  and 
forgiveness — for  forgiving  is  what  some  women  love  best  of  all. 

We  may  be  sure  that  the  widow,  having  a  certain  other  object  in 
view,  had  lost  no  time  in  writing  off  to  Pen  an  account  of  the  noble, 
the  magnanimous,  the  magnificent  ofter  of  Laura,  filling  up  her  letter 
with  a  profusion  of  benedictions  upon  both  her  children.  It  was  pro- 
bably the  knowledge  of  this  money  obligation  which  caused  Pen  to 
blush  very  much  when  he  saw  Laura,  who  was  in  waiting  in  the  hall, 
and  who  this  time,  and  for  this  time  only,  broke  through  the  little 
arrangement  of  which  we  have  spoken,  as  having  subsisted  between 
her  and  Arthur  for  the  last  few  years  ;  but  the  truth  is,  there  has  been 
a  great  deal  too  much  said  about  kissing  in  the  present  chapter. 

So  the  Prodigal  came  home,  and  the  fatted  calf  was  killed  for  him, 
and  he.  was  made  as  happy  as  two  simple  women  could  make  him. 
No  allusions  were  made  to  the  Oxbridge  mishap,  or  questions  asked 
as  to  his  farther  proceedings,  for  some  time.  But  Pen  debated  these 
anxiously  in  his  own  mind,  and  up  in  his  own  room,  where  he  passed 
much  time  in  cogitation. 

A  few  days  after  he  came  home,  he  rode  to  Chatteris  on  his  horse, 
and  came  back  on  the  top  of  the  coach.  He  then  informed  his  mother 
that  he  had  left  the  horse  to  be  sold ;  and  when  that  operation  was 
effected,  he  handed  her  over  the  cheque,  which  she,  and  possiblv  Pen 
himself,  thought  was  an  act  of  uncommon  virtue  and  self-denial,  but 
which  Laura  pronounced  to  be  only  strict  justice. 

He  rarely  mentioned  the  loan  which  she  had  made,  and  which, 
indeed,  had  been  accepted  by  the  widow  with  certain  modifications; 
but  once  or  twice,  and  with  great  hesitation  and  stammering,  he 
alluded  to  it,  and  thanked  her.  It  evidently  pained  his  vanitv  to  be 
beholden  to  the  orphan  for  succour.  He  was  wild  to  find  some  means 
of  repaying  her. 


PENDENNIS. 


199 


He  left  off  drinking  wine,  and  betook  himself,  but  with  great 
moderation,  to  the  refreshment  of  whisky-and-water.  He  gave  up 
cigar-smoking ;  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  of  late  years  he  had 
liked  pipes  and  tobacco  as  well  or  even  better,  so  that  this  sacrifice 
was  not  a  very  severe  one. 

He  fell  asleep  a  great  deal  after  dinner  when  he  joined  the  ladies 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  was  certainly  very  moody  and  melancholy. 
He  Avatched  the  coaches  with  great  interest,  walked  in  to  read  the 
papers  at  Clavering  assiduously,  dined  with  anybody  who  would  ask 
him  (and  the  widow  was  glad  that  he  should  have  any  entertainment 
in  their  solitary  place),  and  played  a  good  deal  at  cribbage  with 
Captain  Glanders. 

He  avoided  Dr.  Portman,  who,  in  his  turn,  whenever  Pen  passed, 
gave  him  very  severe  looks  from  under  his  shovel-hat.  He  went  to 
church  with  his  mother,  however,  very  regularly,  and  read  prayers  for 
her  at  home  to  the  little  household.  Always  humble,  it  was  greatly 
diminished  now :  a  couple  of  maids  did  the  work  of  the  house  of 
Fairoaks :  the  silver  dish-covers  never  saw  the  light  at  all.  John  put 
on  his  livery  to  go  to  church,  and  assert  his  dignity  on  Sundays,  but 
it  was  only  for  form's  sake.  He  was  gardener  and  out-door  man,  vice 
Upton,  resigned.  There  was  but  little  fire  in  Fairoaks  kitchen,  and 
John  and  the  maids  drank  their  evening  beer  there  by  the  light  of  a 
single  candle.  All  this  was  Mr.  Pen's  doing,  and  the  state  of  things 
did  not  increase  his  cheerfulness. 

For  some  time  Pen  said  no  power  on  earth  could  induce  him  to  go 
back  to  Oxbridge  again,  after  his  failure  there ;  but  one  day,  Laura 
said  to  him,  with  many  blushes,  that  she  thought,  as  some  sort  of 
reparation,  of  punishment  on  himself  for  his — for  his  idleness,  he 
ought  to  go  back  and  get  his  degree,  if  he  could  fetch  it  by  doing  so ; 
and  so  back  Mr.  Pen  went. 

A  plucked  man  is  a  dismal  being  in  a  university ;  belonging  to  no 
set  of  men  there,  and  owned  by  no  one.  Pen  felt  himself  plucked 
indeed  of  all  the  fine  feathers  which  he  had  won  during  his  brilliant 
years,  and  rarely  appeared  out  of  his  college;  regularly  going  to 
morning  chapel,  and  shutting  himself  up  in  his  rooms  of  nights,  away 
from  the  noise  and  suppers  of  the  undergraduates.  There  were  no  duns 
about  his  door,  they  were  all  paid — scarcely  any  cards  were  left  there. 
The  men  of  his  year  had  taken  their  degrees,  and  were  gone.  Pie  went 
into  a  second  examination,  and  passed  with  perfect  ease.  He  was  some- 
what more  easy  in  his  mind  when  he  appeared  in  his  bachelor's  gown. 

On  his  way  back  from  Oxbridge  he  paid  a  visit  to  his  uncle  in 
London ;  but  the  old  gentleman  received  him  with  very  cold  looks,  and 
would  scarcely  give  him  his  forefinger  to  shake.  He  called  a  second 
time,  but  Morgran,  the  valet,  said  his  master  was  from  home. 


200  PENDENNIS. 

Pen  came  back  to  Fairoaks,  and  to  his  books  and  to  his  idleness, 
and  loneliness  and  despair.  He  commenced  several  tragedies,  and 
wrote  many  copies  of  verses  of  a  gloomy  cast.  He  formed  plans  of 
reading  and  broke  them.  He  thought  about  enlisting — about  the 
Spanish  legion — about  a  profession.  He  chafed  against  his  captivity, 
and  cursed  the  idleness  which  had  caused  it.  Helen  said  he  was 
breaking  his  heart,  and  was  sad  to  see  his  prostration.  As  soon  as 
they  could  afford  it,  he  should  go  abroad — he  should  go  to  London — 
he  should  be  freed  from  the  dull  society  of  two  poor  women.  It  was 
dull — very,  certainly.  The  tender  widow's  habitual  melancholy  seemed 
to  deepen  into  a  sadder  gloom ;  and  Laura  saw  with  alarm  that  the 
dear  friend  became  ever}'  year  more  languid  and  weary,  and  that  her 
pale  cheek  grew  more  v/an. 


PENDENNIS,  20I 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

NEW    FACES. 

^  I  "HE  inmates  of  Fairoalis  were  drowsily  pursuing  this  humdrum 
-L  existence,  while  the  great  house  upon  the  hill,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  River  Brawl,  was  shaking  off  the  slumber  in  which  it  had  lain 
during  the  lives  of  two  generations  of  masters,  and  giving  extraordinary 
signs  of  renewed  liveliness. 

Just  about  the  time  of  Pen's  little  mishap,  and  when  he  was  so 
absorbed  in  the  grief  occasioned  by  that  calamity  as  to  take  no  notice 
of  events  which  befel  persons  less  interesting  to  himself  than  Arthur 
Pendennis,  an  announcement  appeared  in  the  provincial  journals 
which  caused  no  small  sensation  in  the  county  at  least,  and  in  all  the 
towns,  villages,  halls,  and  mansions  and  parsonages  for  many  miles 
round  Clavering  Park.  At  Clavering  Market;  at  Cackleby  Fair;  at 
Chatteris  Sessions;  on  Gooseberry  Green,  as  the  squire's  carriage  met 
the  vicar's  one-horse  contrivance,  and  the  inmates  of  both  vehicles 
stopped  on  the  road  to  talk ;  at  Tinkleton  Church  gate,  as  the  bell  was 
tolling  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  white  smocks  and  scarlet  cloaks  came 
trooping  over  the  green  common,  to  Sunday  worship ;  in  a  hundred 
societies  round  about — the  word  was,  that  Clavering  Park  was  to  be 
inhabited  again. 

Some  five  years  before,  the  county  papers  had  advertised  the 
marriage  at  Florence,  at  the  British  Legation,  of  Francis  Clavering, 
Esq.,  only  son  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart.,  of  Clavering  Park,  with 
Jemima  Augusta,  daughter  of  Samuel  Snell,  of  Calcutta,  Esq.,  and 
widow  of  the  late  J.  Amory,  Esq.  At  that  time  the  legend  in  the 
county  was  that  Clavering,  who  had  been  ruined  for  many  a  year,  had 
married  a  widow  from  India  with  some  money.  Some  of  the  county 
folks  caught  a  sight  of  the  newly-married  pair.  The  Kickleburys, 
travelling  in  Italy,  had  seen  them.  Clavering  occupied  the  Poggi 
Palace  at  Florence,  gave  parties,  and  lived  comfortably— but  could 
never  come  to  England.  Another  year — young  Peregrine,  of  Cackleby, 
making  a  Long  Vacation  tour,  had  fallen  in  with  the  Claverings 
occupying  Schloss  Schinkenstein,  on  the  Mummul  See.  At  Rome, 
at  Lucca,  at  Nice,  at  the  baths  and  gambling  places  of  the  Rhine  and 
Belgium,  this  worthy  couple  might  occasionally  be  heard  of  by  the 

SANTA  Wmm  STATE  GOLLECZ  mWl 


2oi  PENDENNIS. 

curious,  and  rumours  of  them  came,  as  it  were  by  gusts,  to  Clavering's 
ancestral  place. 

Their  last  place  of  abode  was  Paris,  where  they  appear  to  have 
lived  in  great  fashion  and  splendour  after  the  news  of  the  death  of 
Samuel  Snell,  Esq.,  of  Calcutta,  reached  his  orphan  daughter  in 
Europe. 

Of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  antecedents  little  can  be  said  that  would 
be  advantageous  to  that  respected  baronet.  The  son  of  an  outlaw, 
living  in  adismal  old  chateau  near  Bruges,  this  gentleman  had  made 
a  feeble  attempt  to  start  in  life  with  a  commission  in  a  dragoon  regi- 
ment, and  had  broken  down  almost  at  the  outset.  Transactions  at  the 
gambling-table  had  speedily  effected  his  ruin  ;  after  a  couple  of  years 
in  the  army  he  had  been  forced  to  sell  out,  had  passed  some  time  in 
his  Majesty's  prison  of  the  Fleet,  and  had  then  shipped  over  to 
Ostend  to  join  the  gouty  exile  his  father.  And  in  Belgium,  France, 
and  Germany,  for  some  years,  this  decayed  and  abortive  prodigal 
might  be  seen  lurking  about  billiard-rooms  and  watering-places, 
punting  at  gambling-houses,  dancing  at  boarding-house  balls,  and 
riding  steeple-chases  on  other  folks'  horses. 

It  was  at  a  boarding-house  at  Lausanne,  that  Francis  Clavering 
made  what  he  called  the  lucky  coup  of  marrying  the  widow  Amon-,  verj' 
lately  returned  from  Calcutta.  His  father  died  soon  after,  by  conse- 
quence of  whose  demise  his  wife  became  Lady  Clavering.  The  title 
so  delighted  Mr.  Snell  of  Calcutta,  that  he  doubled  his  daughter's 
allowance  ;  and,  dying  himself  soon  after,  left  a  fortune  to  her  and 
her  children,  the  amount  of  which  was,  if  not  magnified  by  rumour, 
something  very  splendid  indeed. 

Before  this  time  there  had  been,  not  rumours  unfavourable  to 
Lady  Clavering's  reputation,  but  unpleasant  impressions  regarding  her 
ladyship.  The  best  English  people  abroad  were  shy  of  making  her 
acquaintance;  her  manners  were  not  the  most  refined;  her  origin  was 
lamentably  low  and  doubtful.  The  retired  East  Indians,  who  are  to 
be  found  in  considerable  force  in  most  of  the  continental  towns 
frequented  by  English,  spoke  with  much  scorn  of  the  disreputable 
old  la-\\yer  and  indigo-smuggler  her  father,  and  of  Amon,-,  her  first 
husband,  who  had  been  mate  of  the  Indiaman  in  which  Miss  Snell 
came  out  to  join  her  father  at  Calcutta.  Neither  father  nor  daughter 
were  in  society  at  Calcutta,  or  had  ever  been  heard  of  at  Government 
House.  Old  Sir  Jasper  Rogers,  who  had  been  Chief  Justice  of 
Calcutta,  had  once  said  to  his  wife,  that  he  could  tell  a  queer  stor}' 
about  Lady  Clavering's  first  husband;  but  greatly  to  Lady  Rogers's 
disappointment,  and  that  of  the  young  ladies  his  daughters,  the  old 
Judge  could  never  be  got  to  reveal  that  myster)-. 

They  were  all,  ho\vever,  glad  enough  to  go  to   Lady  Clavering's 


PENDE'N'NIS  203 

patties,  when  her  ladyship  took  the  Hotel  Bouilli  in  the  Rue  Crenelle 
at  Paris,  and  blazed  out  in  the  polite  world  there  in  the  winter  of 
1 83 — .  The  Faubourg  St.  Germain  took  her  up.  Viscount  Bagwig, 
our  excellent  ambassador,  paid  her  marked  attention.  The  princes 
of  the  family  frequented  her  salons.  The  most  rigid  and  noted  of  the 
English  ladies  resident  in  the  French  capital  acknowledged  and 
countenanced  her  ;  the  virtuous  Lady  Elderbury,  the  severe  Lady 
Rockminster,  the  venerable  Countess  of  Southdown — people,  in  a 
word,  renowned  for  austerity,  and  of  quite  a  dazzling  moral  purity  : — 
so  great  and  beneficent  an  influence  had  the  possession  of  ten  (some 
said  twenty)  thousand  a  year  exercised  upon  Lady  Clavering's  cha- 
racter and  reputation.  And  her  munificence  and  good-will  were 
unbounded.  Anybody  (in  society)  who  had  a  scheme  of  charity  was 
sure  to  find  her  purse  open.  The  French  ladies  of  piety  got  money 
from  her  to  support  their  schools  and  convents  ;  she  subscribed 
indifferently  for  the  Armenian  patriarch  ;  for  Father  Barbarossa,  who 
came  to  Europe  to  collect  funds  for  his  monastery  on  Mount  Athos  ; 
for  the  Baptist  Mission  to  Ouashyboo,  and  the  Orthodox  Settlement 
in  Feefawfoo,  the  largest  and  most  savage  of  the  Cannibal  Islands. 
And  it  is  on  record  of  her,  that,  on  the  Same  day  on  which  Madame 
de  Cricri  got  five  napoleons  from  her  in  support  of  the  poor  perse- 
cuted Jesuits,  who  were  at  that  time  in  very  bad  odour  in  France, 
Lady  Budelight  put  her  down  in  her  subscription-list  for  the  Rev.  J. 
Ramshorn,  who  had  had  a  vision  which  ordered  him  to  convert  the 
Pope  of  Rome.  And  more  than  this,  and  for  the  benefit  of  the  worldly, 
her  ladyship  gave  the  best  dinners,  and  the  grandest  balls  and  suppers, 
which  were  known  at  Paris  during  that  season. 

And  it  was  during  this  time,  that  the  good-natured  lady  must 
have  arranged  matters  with  her  husband's  creditors  in  England,  for 
Sir  Francis  re-appeared  in  his  native  country,  without  fear  of  arrest ; 
was  announced  in  the  Morning  Post,  and  the  county  paper,  as  having 
taken  up  his  residence  at  Mivart's  hotel ;  and  one  day  the  anxious  old 
housekeeper  at  Clavering  House  beheld  a  carriage  and  four  horses 
drive  up  the  long  avenue,  and  stop  before  the  moss-grown  steps  in 
front  of  the  vast  melancholy  portico. 

Three  gentlemen  were  in  the  carriage — an  open  one.  On  the  back 
seat  was  our  old  acquaintance,  Mr.  Tatham  of  Chatteris,  whilst  in  the 
places  of  honour  sate  a  handsome  and  portly  gentleman  enveloped  in 
mustachios,  whiskers,  fur  collars,  and  braiding,  and  by  him  a  pale 
languid  m.an,  who  descended  feebly  from  the  carriage,  v/hen  the  little 
lawyer,  and  the  gentleman  in  fur,  had  nimbly  jumped  out  of  it. 

They  walked  up  the  great  moss-grown  steps  to  the  hall-door,  and 
a  foreign  attendant,  with  ear-rings  and  a  gold-laccd  cap,  pulled  strcnu- 
ouslv  at  the  great  bell-handle  at  the  cracked  and  sculptured  gMe. 


204  PENDENNIS. 

The  bell  was  heard  clanging  loudly  through  the  vast  gloomy  mansion. 
Steps  resounded  presently  upon  the  marble  pavement  of  the  hall 
within ;  and  the  doors  opened,  and  finally,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  the  house- 
keeper, Polly,  her  aide-de-camp,  and  Smart,  the  keeper,  appeared, 
bowing  humbly. 

.  Smart,  the  keeper,  pulled  the  wisp  of  hay-coloured  hair  which 
adorned  his  sunburnt  forehead,  kicked  out  his  left  heel,  as  if  there 
were  a  dog  biting  at  his  calves,  and  brought  down  his  head  to  a  bow. 
Old  Mrs.  Blenkinsop  dropped  a  curtsey.  Little  Polly,  her  aide-de- 
camp, made  a  curtsey,  and  several  rapid  bows  likewise:  and  Mrs. 
Blenkinsop,  with  a  great  deal  of  emotion,  quavered  out,  "  Welcome  to 
Clavering,  Sir  Francis.  It  du  my  poor  eyes  good  to  see  one  of  the 
family  once  more." 

The  speech  and  the  greetings  were  all  addressed  to  the  grand 
gentleman  in  fur  and  braiding,  who  wore  his  hat  so  magnificently  on 
one  side,  and  twirled  his  mustachios  so  royally.  But  he  burst  out 
laughing,  and  said,  "You've  saddled  the  wrong  horse,  old  lady — Tm 
not  Sir  Francis  Clavering  what's  come  to  revisit  the  halls  of  my 
ancestors.     Friends  and  vassals !  behold  your  rightful  lord  I  " 

And  he  pointed  his  hand  towards  the  pale,  languid  gentleman,  who 
said,  "  Don't  be  an  ass,  Ned." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  Fm  Sir  Francis  Clavering;  I  recollect 
you  quite  well.  Forgot  me,  I  suppose?— How  dy  do.''"  and  he  took 
the  old  lady's  trembling  hand ;  and  nodded  in  her  astonished  face,  in 
a  not  unkind  manner. 

Mrs.  Blenkinsop  declared  upon  her  conscience  that  she  would 
have  known  Sir  Francis  anywhere;  that  he  was  the  very  image  of 
Sir  Francis  his  father,  and  of  Sir  John  who  had  gone  before. 

"  O  yes — thanky — of  course — very  much  obliged — and  that  sort  of 
thing,"  Sir  Francis  said,  looking  vacantly  about  the  hall.  "  Dismal 
old  place,  ain't  it,  Ned.''  Never  saw  it  but  once,  when  my  governor 
quarrelled  with  my  gwandfather,  in  the  year  twenty-thwee." 

"  Dismal  ? — beautiful ! — the  Castle  of  Otranto ! — the  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho,  by  Jove  !"  said  the  individual  addressed  as  Ned.  "What 
a  fire-place !  You  might  roast  an  elephant  in  it.  Splendid  carved 
gallerj'!     Inigo  Jones,  by  Jove !     Fd  lay  five  to  two  it's  Inigo  Jones." 

"The  upper  part  by  Inigo  Jones;  the  lower  was  altered  by  the 
eminent  Dutch  architect,  Vanderputty,  in  George  the  First  his  time, 
by  Sir  Richard,  fourth  baronet,"  said  the  housekeeper. 

"  O  indeed,"  said  the  Baronet.  "  'Gad,  Ned,  you  know  everv- 
thing." 

"  I  know  a  few  things,  Frank,"  Ned  answered.  "  I  know  that's 
not  a  Snyders  over  the  mantel-piece — bet  you  three  to  one  it's  a  copy. 
We'll  restore  it,  my  boy.     A  lick  of  varnish,  and  it  will  come  out 


PENDENNIS.  205 

tvonderfully,  sir.  That  old  fellow  in  the  red  gown,  I  suppose,  is 
Sir  Richard." 

"  Sheriff  of  the  county,  and  sate  in  parliament  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne,"  said  the  housekeeper,  wondering  at  the  stranger's 
knowledge;  "that  on  the  right  is  Theodosia,  wife  of  Harbottle, 
second  baronet,  by  Lely,  represented  in  the  character  of  Venus,  the 
Goddess  of  Beauty, — her  son  Gregory,  the  third  baronet,  by  her  side, 
as  Cupid,  God  of  Love,  with  a  bow  and  arrows ;  that  on  the  next  panel 
is  Sir  Rupert,  made  a  knight  banneret  by  Charles  the  First,  and  whose 
property  was  confuscated  by  Oliver  Cromwell." 

"  Thank  you — needn't  go  on,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,''  said  the  Baronet. 
"  We'll  walk  about  the  place  ourselves.  Frosch,  give  me  a  cigar. 
Have  a  cigar,  Mr.  Tatham  ? " 

Little  Mr.  Tatham  tried  a  cigar  which  Sir  Francis's  courier  handed 
to  him,  and  over  which  the  lawyer  spluttered  fearfully.  "  Needn't 
come  with  us,  Mrs.  Blenkinsop.  What's-his-name  — you — Smart  — 
feed  the  horses  and  wash  their  mouths.  Sha'n't  stay  long.  Come  along. 
Strong, — I  know  the  way  :  I  was  here  in  twenty- thwee,  at  the  end  of 
my  gwandfather's  time."  And  Sir  Francis  and  Captain  Strong,  for 
such  was  the  style  and  title  of  Sir  Francis's  friend,  passed  out  of  the 
hall  into  the  reception-rooms,  leaving  the  discomfited  Mrs.  Blenkinsop 
to  disappear  by  a  side-door  which  led  to  her  apartments,  now  the  only 
habitable  rooms  in  the  long-uninhabited  mansion. 

It  was  a  place  so  big  that  no  tenant  could  afford  to  live  in  it ;  and 
Sir  Francis  and  his  friend  walked  through  room  after  room,  admiring 
their  vastness  and  dreary  and  deserted  grandeur.  On  the  right  of  the 
hall  door  were  the  saloons  and  drawing-rooms,  and  on  the  other  side 
the  oak  room,  the  parlour,  the  grand  dining-room,  the  library,  where 
Fen  had  found  books  in  old  days.  Round  three  sides  of  the  hall  ran 
a  gallery,  by  which,  and  corresponding  passages,  the  chief  bed-rooms 
were  approached,  and  of  which  many  were  of  stately  proportions  and 
exhibited  marks  of  splendour.  On  the  second  story  was  a  labyrinth  of 
little  discomfortable  garrets,  destined  for  the  attendants  of  the  great 
folks  who  inhabited  the  mansion  in  the  days  when  it  was  first 
built  :  and  I  do  not  know  any  more  cheering  mark  of  the  increased 
philanthropy  of  our  own  times,  than  to  contrast  our  domestic  architec- 
ture with  that  of  our  ancestors,  and  to  see  how  much  better  servants 
and  poor  are  cared  for  at  present,  than  in  times  when  my  lord  and 
my  lady  slept  under  gold  canopies,  and  their  servants  lay  above  them 
in  quarters  not  so  airy  or  so  clean  as  stables  are  now. 

Up  and  down  the  house  the  two  gentlemen  wandered,  the  owner 
of  the  mansion  being  very  silent  and  resigned  about  the  pleasure  of 
possessing  it ;  whereas  the  Captain  his  friend  examined  the  premises 
with  so  much  interest  and  eagerness  that  you  would  have  thought  he 


2o6  PENDENiYIS. 

was  the  master,  and  the  other  the  indifferent  spectator  of  the  place. 
"  I  see  capabilities  in  it — capabilities  in  it,  sir,"  cried  the  Captain. 
"  Gad,  sir,  leave  it  to  me,  and  111  make  it  the  pride  of  the  country,  at 
a  small  expense.  What  a  theatre  we  can  have  in  the  library'  here,  the 
curtains  between  the  columns  which  divide  the  room !  What  a  famous 
room  for  a  galop ! — it  will  hold  the  whole  shire.  We'll  hang  the 
morning  parlour  with  the  tapestry-  in  your  second  salon  in  the  Rue  de 
Crenelle,  and  furnish  the  oak  room  with  the  Moyen-age  cabinets  and 
the  armour.  Armour  looks  splendid  against  black  oak,  and  there's  a 
Venice  glass  in  the  Quai  Voltaire,  which  will  suit  that  high  mantel- 
piece to  an  inch,  sir.  The  long  saloon,  white  and  crimson,  of  course ; 
the  drawing-room  yellow  satin ;  and  the  little  drawing-room  light  blue, 
with  lace  over — hey  ? " 

"  I  recollect  my  old  governor  caning  me  in  that  little  room,"  Sir 
Francis  said  sententiously ;  "  he  always  hated  me,  my  old  governor." 

"  Chintz  is  the  dodge,  I  suppose,  for  my  lady's  rooms — the  suite 
in  the  landing,  to  the  south,  the  bed-room,  the  sitting-room,  and  the 
dressing-room.  We'll  throw  a  conservatory  out,  over  the  balcony. 
Where  will  you  have  your  rooms  ? " 

"  Put  mine  in  the  north  wing,"  said  the  baronet,  with  a  yawn,  "  and 
out  of  the  reach  of  Miss  Amory's  confounded  piano.  I  can't  bear  it. 
She's  scweeching  from  morning  till  night." 

The  Captain  burst  out  laughing.  He  settled  the  whole  further 
arrangements  of  the  house  in  the  course  of  their  walk  through  it ;  and, 
the  promenade  ended,  they  went  into  the  steward's  room,  now  inha- 
bited by  Mrs.  Blenkinsop,  and  where  Mr.  Tatham  was  sitting  poring 
over  a  plan  of  the  estate,  and  the  old  housekeeper  had  prepared  a 
collation  in  honour  of  her  lord  and  master. 

Then  they  inspected  the  kitchen  and  stables,  about  both  of 
which  Sir  Francis  was  rather  interested,  and  Captain  Strong  was  for 

examining  the  gardens ;  but  the  baronet  said,  "  D the  gardens, 

and  that  sort  of  thing !  "  and  finally  he  drove  away  from  the  house  as 
unconcernedly  as  he  had  entered  it;  and  that  night  the  people  of 
Clavering  learned  that  Sir  Francis  Clavering  had  paid  a  visit  to  the 
Park,  and  was  coming  to  live  in  the  county. 

When  this  fact  came  to  be  known  at  Chatteris,  all  the  folks  in  the 
place  were  set  in  commotion:  High  Church  and  Low  Church,  half- 
pay  captains  and  old  maids  and  dowagers,  sporting  squireens  of  the 
vicinage,  farmers,  tradesmen,  and  factory-  people — all  the  population 
in  and  round  about  the  little  place.  The  news  was  brought  to  Fair- 
oaks,  and  received  by  the  ladies  there,  and  by  Mr.  Pen,  with  some 
excitement.  "  Mrs.  Pybus  says  there  is  a  ver>-  pretty  girl  in  the  family, 
Arthur,"  Laura  said,  who  was  as  kind  and  thoughtful  upon  this  point 
as  women  generally  are :  "  a  Miss  Amory,  Lady  Clavering's  daughter 


PENDENNIS.  207 

by  her  first  marriage.    Of  course,  you  will  fall  in  love  with  her  as  soon 
as  she  arrives." 

Helen  cried  out,  "  Don't  talk  nonsense,  Laura."  Pen  laughed,  and 
said,  "  Well,  there  is  the  young  Sir  Francis  for  you." 

"  He  is  but  four  years  old,"  Miss  Laura  replied.  "  But  I  shall 
console  myself  with  that  handsome  officer.  Sir  Francis's  friend.  He 
was  at  church  last  Sunday,  in  the  Clavering  Pew,  and  his  mustachios 
were  beautiful." 

Indeed  the  number  of  Sir  Francis's  family  (whereof  the  members 
have  all  been  mentioned  in  the  above  paragraphs)  was  pretty  soon 
known  in  the  town,  and  everything  else,  as  nearly  as  human  industry 
and  ingenuity  could  calculate,  regarding  his  household.  The  Park 
avenue  and  grounds  were  dotted  now  with  townfolks  of  the  summer 
evenings,  who  made  their  way  up  to  the  great  house,  peered  about 
the  premises,  and  criticised  the  improvements  which  were  taking 
place  there.  Loads  upon  loads  of  furniture  arrived  in  numberless 
vans  from  Chatteris  and  London  ;  and  numerous  as  the  vans  were, 
there  was  not  one  but  Captain  Glanders  knew  what  it  contained,  and 
escorted  the  baggage  up  to  the  Park  house. 

He  and  Captain  Edward  Strong  had  formed  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance by  this  time.  The  younger  Captain  occupied  those  very  lodgings 
at  Clavering,  which  the  peaceful  Smirke  had  previously  tenanted,  and' 
was  deep  in  the  good  graces  of  Madame  Fribsby,  his  landlady ;  and  of 
the  whole  town,  indeed.  The  Captain  was  splendid  in  person  and 
raiment ;  fresh-coloured,  blue-eyed,  black-whiskered,  broad-chested, 
athletic — a  slight  tendency  to  fulness  did  not  take  away  from  the 
comeliness  of  his  jolly  figure — a  braver  soldier  never  presented  a 
broader  chest  to  the  enemy.  As  he  strode  down  Clavering  High 
Street,  his  hat  on  one  side,  his  cane  clanking  on  the  pavement,  or 
waving  round  him  in  the  execution  of  military  cuts  and  soldatesque 
manoeuvres — his  jolly  laughter  ringing  through  the  otherwise  silent 
street — he  was  as  welcome  as  sunshine  to  the  place,  and  a  comfort  to 
every  inhabitant  in  it. 

On  the  first  market-day  he  knew  every  pretty  girl  in  tlie  market : 
he  joked  with  all  the  women ;  had  a  word  with  the  farmers  about  their 
stock,  and  dined  at  the  Agricultural  Ordinary  at  the  Clavering  Arms, 
where  he  set  them  all  dying  with  laughter  by  his  fun  and  jokes.  "  Tu 
be  sure  he  be  a  vine  feller,  tu  be  sure  that  he  be,"  was  the  universal 
opinion  of  the  gentlemen  in  top-boots.  He  shook  hands  with  a 
score  of  them,  as  they  rode  out  of  the  inn-yard  on  their  old  nags, 
waving  his  hat  to  them  splendidly  as  he  smoked  his  cigar  in  the  inn- 
gate.  In  the  course  of  the  evening  he  was  free  of  the  landlady's  bar, 
knew  what  rent  the  landlord  paid,  how  many  acres  he  farmed,  how 
much  malt  he  put  in  his  strong  beer;  and  whether  he  ever  run  in  a 


2o8  PENDENNIS. 

little  brandy  unexcised  by  kings  from  Baymouth,  or  the  fishing  villages 
along  the  coast. 

He  had  tried  to  live  at  the  great  house  first ;  but  it  was  so  dull  he 
couldn't  stand  it.  "  I  am  a  creature  born  for  society,"  he  told  Captain 
Glanders.  "  I'm  down  here  to  see  Clavering's  house  set  in  order;  for, 
between  ourselves,  Frank  has  no  energy,  sir,  no  energy ;  he's  not  the 
chest  for  it,  sir  (and  he  threw  out  his  own  trunk  as  he  spoke) ;  but  I 
must  have  social  intercourse.  Old  Mrs.  Blenkinsop  goes  to  bed  at 
seven,  and  takes  Polly  with  her.  There  was  nobody  but  me  and  the 
Ghost  for  the  first  two  nights  at  the  great  house,  and  I  owti  it,  sir,  I 
like  company.     Most  old  soldiers  do." 

Glanders  asked  Strong  where  he  had  ser\-ed  ?  Captain  Strong  curled 
his  moustache,  and  said  with  a  laugh,  that  the  other  might  almost 
ask  where  he  had  fiot  served.  "  I  began,  sir,  as  cadet  of  Hungarian 
Uhlans,  and  when  the  war  of  Greek  independence  broke  out,  quitted 
that  servdce  in  consequence  of  a  quarrel  with  my  governor,  and  was 
one  of  seven  who  escaped  from  Missolonghi,  and  was  blown  up  in  one 
of  Botzaris's  fireships,  at  the  age  of  seventeen.  I'll  show  you  my  Cross 
of  the  Redeemer,  if  you'll  come  over  to  my  lodgings  and  take  a  glass  of 
grog  with  me.  Captain,  this  evening.  I've  a  few  of  those  baubles  in 
my  desk.  I've  the  White  Eagle  of  Poland;  Skrzynecki  gave  it  me" 
(he  pronounced  Skrzynecki's  name  with  wonderful  accuracy  and  gusto) 
"  upon  the  field  of  Ostrolenko.  I  was  a  lieutenant  of  the  fourth  regi- 
ment, sir,  and  we  marched  through  Diebitsch's  lines — bang  thro'  "em 
into  Prussia,  sir,  without  firing  a  shot.  Ah,  Captain,  that  was  a  mis- 
managed business.  I  received  this  wound  by  the  side  of  the  King 
before  Oporto — where  he  would  have  pounded  the  stock-jobbing 
Pedroites,  had  Bourmont  followed  my  advice ;  and  I  served  in  Spain 
with  the  King's  troops,  until  the  death  of  my  dear  friend,  Zumalacar- 
reguy,  when  I  saw  the  game  was  over,  and  hung  up  my  toasting-iron. 
Captain.  Alava  offered  me  a  regiment ;  but  I  couldn't — damme  I 
couldn't — and  now,  sir,  you  know  Xed  Strong — the  Chevalier  Strong 
they  call  me  abroad — as  well  as  he  knows  himself." 

In  this  way  almost  even'body  in  Clavering  came  to  know  Xed 
Strong.  He  told  Madame  Fribsby,  he  told  the  landlord  of  the 
George,  he  told  Baker  at  the  reading-rooms,  he  told  Mrs.  Glanders, 
and  the  young  ones,  at  dinner :  and  finally,  he  told  Mr.  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis,  who,  yawning  into  Clavering  one  day,  found  the  Chevalier 
Strong  in  company  with  Captain  Glanders ;  and  who  was  delighted 
with  his  new  acquaintance. 

Before  many  days  were  over.  Captain  Strong  was  as  much  at  home 
in  Helen's  drawing-room  as  he  was  in  Madame  Fribsbys  first  floor ; 
and  made  the  lonely  house  very  gay  with  his  good  humour  and  cease- 
less flow  of  talk.     The  two  Vr-omen  had  never  before  seen  such  a  man. 


PENDENNIS.  209 

He  had  a  thousand  stories  about  battles  and  dangers  to  interest  them 
— about  Greek  captives,  PoHsh  beauties,  and  Spanish  nuns.  He  could 
sing  scores  of  songs,  in  half-a-dozen  languages,  and  would  sit  down  to 
the  piano  and  troll  them  off  in  a  rich  manly  voice.  Both  the  ladies 
pronounced  him  to  be  delightful — and  so  he  was:  though,  indeed,  they 
had  not  had  much  choice  of  man's  society  as  yet,  having  seen  in  the 
course  of  their  lives  but  few  persons,  except  old  Portman  and  the 
Major,  and  Mr.  Pen,  who  was  a  genius,  to  be  sure;  but  then  your 
geniuses  are  somewhat  flat  and  moody  at  home. 

And  Captain  Strong  acquainted  his  new  friends  at  Fairoaks,  not 
only  with  his  own  biography,  but  with  the  whole  history  of  the  family 
now  coming  to  Clavering.  It  was  he  who  had  made  the  marriage 
between  his  friend  Frank  and  the  widow  Amory.  She  wanted  rank, 
and  he  wanted  money.  What  match  could  be  more  suitable?  He 
organised  it ;  he  made  those  two  people  happy.  There  was  no  par- 
ticular romantic  attachment  between  them ;  the  widow  was  not  of  an 
age  or  a  person  for  romance,  and  Sir  Francis,  if  he  had  his  game  at 
billiards,  and  his  dinner,  cared  for  little  besides.  But  they  were  as 
happy  as  people  could  be.  Clavering  would  return  to  his  native  place 
and  country,  his  wife's  fortune  would  pay  his  encumbrances  off,  and 
his  son  and  heir  would  be  one  of  the  first  men  in  the  county. 

"And  Miss  Amory.'"'  Laura  asked.  Laura  was  uncommonly 
curious  about  Miss  Amory. 

Strong  laughed.  "  Oh,  Miss  Amory  is  a  muse — Miss  Amory  is  a 
mystery — Miss  Amory  is  3.  feiiiine  i7icoinprise."  "What  is  that.'*" 
asked  simple  Mrs.  Pendennis— but  the  Chevalier  gave  her  no  answer; 
perhaps  could  not  give  her  one.  "  Miss  Amory  paints,  Miss  Amory 
writes  poems.  Miss  Amory  composes  music.  Miss  Amory  rides  like 
Diana  Vernon.     Miss  Amory  is  a  paragon,  in  a  word." 

"  I  hate  clever  women,"  said  Pen. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Laura.  For  her  part  she  was  sure  she  should 
be  charmed  with  Miss  Amory,  and  quite  longed  to  have  such  a  friend. 
And  with  this  she  looked  Pen  full  in  the  face,  as  if  every  word  the  little 
hypocrite  said  was  Gospel  truth. 

Thus  an  intimacy  was  arranged  and  prepared  beforehand  between 
the  Fairoaks  family  and  their  wealthy  neighbours  at  the  Park ;  and 
Pen  and  Laura  were  to  the  full  as  eager  for  their  arrival,  as  even  the 
most  curious  of  the  Clavering  folks.  A  Londoner,  who  sees  fresh  faces 
and  yawns  at  them  every  day,  may  smile  at  the  eagerness  with  which 
country  people  expect  a  visitor.  A  cockney  comes  amongst  them,  and 
is  remembered  by  his  rural  entertainers  for  years  after  he  has  left  them, 
and  forgotten  them  very  likely — floated  far  away  from  them  on  the 
vast  London  sea.  But  the  islanders  remember  long  after  the  mariner 
has  sailed  away,  and  can  tell  you  what  he  said  and  what  he  wore,  and 

14 


2IO  PENDENNIS. 

how  he  looked  and  how  he  laughed.  In  fine,  a  new  arrival  is  an  event 
in  the  country  not  to  be  understood  by  us,  who  don't,  and  had  rather 
not,  know  who  lives  next  door. 

When  the  painters  and  upholsterers  had  done  their  work  in  the 
house,  and  so  beautified  it,  under  Captain  Strong's  superintendence, 
that  he  might  well  be  proud  of  his  taste,  that  gentleman  announced 
that  he  should  go  to  London,  where  the  whole  family  had  arrived  by 
this  time,  and  should  speedily  return  to  establish  them  in  their  reno- 
vated mansion. 

Detachments  of  domestics  preceded  them.  Carriages  came  down 
by  sea,  and  were  brought  over  from  Baymouth  by  horses  which  had 
previously  arrived  under  the  care  of  grooms  and  coachmen.  One  day 
the  "  Alacrity"  coach  brought  down  on  its  roof  two  large  and  melan- 
choly men,  who  were  dropped  at  the  Park  lodge  with  their  trunks,  and 
who  were  ^Messieurs  Frederick  and  James,  metropolitan  footmen,  who 
had  no  objection  to  the  country,  and  brought  with  them  state  and  other 
suits  of  the  Clavering  uniform. 

On  another  day,  the  mail  deposited  at  the  gate  a  foreign  gentle- 
man, adorned  with  many  ringlets  and  chains.  He  made  a  great  riot 
at  the  lodge  gate  to  the  keeper's  wife  (who,  being  a  west-country 
woman,  did  not  understand  his  English  or  his  Gascon  French), 
because  there  was  no  carriage  in  waiting  to  drive  him  to  the  house,  a 
mile  off,  and  because  he  could  not  walk  entire  leagues  in  his  fatigued 
state  and  varnished  boots.  This  was  ]\Ionsieur  Alcide  Mirobolant, 
formerly  Chef  of  his  Highness  the  Due  de  Borodino,  of  H.  Eminence 
Cardinal  Beccafico,  and  at  present  Chef  of  the  bouche  of  Sir  Clavering, 
Baronet : — INIonsieur  Mirobolant's  library,  pictures,  and  piano,  had 
arrived  previously  in  charge  of  the  intelligent  young  Englishman  his 
aide-de-camp.  He  was,  moreover,  aided  by  a  professed  female  cook, 
likewise  from  London,  who  had  inferior  females  under  her  orders. 

He  did  not  dine  in  the  steward's  room,  but  took  his  nutriment  in 
solitude  in  his  own  apartments,  where  a  female  servant  was  affected  to 
his  private  use.  It  was  a  grand  sight  to  behold  him  in  his  dressing- 
gown  composing  a  menu.  He  always  sate  down  and  played  the  piano 
for  some  time  before.  If  interrupted,  he  remonstrated  pathetically. 
Ever)'  great  artist,  he  said,  had  need  of  solitude  to  perfectionate  his 
works. 

But  we  are  advancing  matters  in  the  fulness  of  our  love  and 
respect  for  Monsieur  IMirobolant,  and  bringing  him  prematurely  on 
the  stage. 

The  Chevalier  Strong  had  a  hand  in  the  engagement  of  all  the 
London  domestics,  and,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  the  master  of  the  house. 
There  were  those  among  them  who  said  he  was  the  house-steward, 
only  he  dined  with  the  family.     Howbcit,  he  knew  how  to  make  him- 


PENDENNIS.  211 

self  respected,  and  two  of  by  no  means  the  least  comfortable  rooms  of 
the  house  were  assigned  to  his  particular  use. 

He  was  walking  upon  the  terrace  finally  upon  the  eventful  day, 
when,  amidst  an  immense  jangling  of  bells  from  Clavering  Church, 
where  the  flag  was  flying,  an  open  carriage  and  one  of  those  travelling 
chariots  or  family  arks,  which  only  English  philo-progenitiveness  could 
invent,  drove  rapidly  with  foaming  horses  through  the  park-gates,  and 
up  to  the  steps  of  the  Hall.  The  two  battans  of  the  sculptured  door 
flew  open.  Two  superior  officers  in  black,  the  large  and  melancholy 
gentlemen,  now  in  livery  with  their  hair  in  powder,  the  country 
menials  engaged  to  aid  them,  were  in  waiting  in  the  hall,  and  bowed 
like  tall  elms  when  autumn  winds  wail  in  the  park.  Through  this 
avenue  passed  Sir  Francis  Clavering  with  a  most  unmoved  face : 
Lady  Clavering,  with  a  pair  of  bright  black  eyes,  and  a  good-humoured 
countenance,  which  waggled  and  nodded  very  graciously:  Master 
Francis  Clavering,  who  was  holding  his  inamma's  skirt  (and  who 
stopped  the  procession  to  look  at  the  largest  footman,  whose  appear- 
ance seemed  to  strike  the  young  gentleman),  and  Miss  Blandy, 
governess  to  Master  Francis,  and  Miss  Amory,  her  ladyship's 
daughter,  giving  her  arm  to  Captain  Strong.  It  was  summer,  but 
fires  of  welcome  were  crackling  in  the  great  hall  chimney,  and  in 
the  rooms  which  the  family  were  to  occupy. 

Monsieur  Mirobolant  had  looked  at  the  procession  from  one  of 
the  lime-trees  in  the  avenue.  "  Elle  est  Ik,"  he  said,  laying  his  jewelled 
hand  on  his  richly-embroidered  velvet  waistcoat  with  glass  buttons. 
"  Je  t'ai  vue ;  je  te  benis,  O  ma  sylphide,  O  mon  ange ! "  and  he  dived 
into  the  thicket,  and  made  his  way  back  to  his  furnaces  and  saucepans. 

The  next  Sunday  the  same  party  Vv^hich  had  just  made  its  appear- 
ance at  Clavering  Park,  came  and  publicly  took  possession  of  the 
ancient  pew  in  the  church,  where  so  many  of  the  baronet's  ancestors 
had  prayed,  and  were  now  kneeling  in  efSgy.  There  was  such  a  run 
to  see  the  new  folk,  that  the  Low  Church  was  deserted,  to  the  disgust 
of  its  pastor ;  and  as  the  state  barouche,  with  the  greys  and  coachman 
in  silver  wig,  and  solemn  footmen,  drew  up  at  the  old  church-yard 
gate,  there  was  such  a  crowd  assembled  there  as  had  not  been  seen 
for  many  a  long  day.  Captain  Strong  knew  everybody,  and  saluted 
for  all  the  company.  The  country  people  vowed  my  lady  was  not 
handsome,  to  be  sure,  but  pronounced  her  to  be  uncommon  fine 
dressed,  as  indeed  she  was— with  the  finest  of  shawls,  the  finest  of 
pelisses,  the  brilliantest  of  bonnets  and  wreaths,  and  a  power  of  rings, 
cameos,  brooches,  chains,  bangles,  and  other  nameless  gimcracks ; 
and  ribbons  of  every  breadth  and  colour  of  the  rainbow  flaming  on 
her  person.  Miss  Amory  appeared  meek  in  dove-colour,  like  a  vestal 
virgin— while  Master  Francis  was  in  the  costume  then  prevalent  of 


212  FENDENNIS. 

Rob  Roy  Macgregor,  a  celebrated  Highland  outlaw.  The  baronet  was 
not  more  animated  than  ordinarily — there  was  a  happy  vacuity  about 
him  which  enabled  him  to  face  a  dinner,  a  death,  a  church,  a  marriage, 
with  the  same  indifferent  ease. 

A  pew  for  the  Clavering  servants  was  filled  by  these  domestics, 
and  the  enraptured  congregation  saw  the  gentlemen  from  London  with 
"  vlower  on  their  heeds,"  and  the  miraculous  coachman  with  his  silver 
wig,  take  their  places  in  that  pew  so  soon  as  his  horses  were  put  up  at 
the  Clavering  Arms. 

In  the  course  of  the  service,  Master  Francis  began  to  make  such 
a  yelling  in  the  pew,  that  Frederick,  the  tallest  of  the  footmen,  was 
beckoned  by  his  master,  and  rose  and  went  and  carried  out  Master 
Francis,  who  roared  and  beat  him  on  the  head,  so  that  the  powder 
flew  round  about,  like  clouds  of  incense.  Nor  was  he  pacified  until 
placed  on  the  box  of  the  carriage,  where  he  played  at  horses  with 
John's  whip. 

"  You  see  the  little  beggar's  never  been  to  church  before.  Miss 
Bell,"  the  baronet  drawled  out  to  a  young  lady  who  was  visiting  him ; 
"  no  wonder  he  should  make  a  row :  I  don't  go  in  town  neither,  but  I 
think  it's  right  in  the  country  to  give  a  good  example — and  that  sort 
of  thing." 

Miss  Bell  laughed  and  said,  "  The  little  boy  had  not  given  a  par- 
ticularly good  example." 

"  Gad,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  baronet.  "  It  ain't  so  bad  neither. 
Whenever  he  wants  a  thing,  Frank  always  cwies,  and  whenever  he 
cwies  he  gets  it." 

Here  the  child  in  question  began  to  howl  for  a  dish  of  sweetmeats 
on  the  luncheon-table,  and  making  a  lunge  across  the  table-cloth, 
upset  a  glass  of  wine  over  the  best  waistcoat  of  one  of  the  guests 
present,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  who  was  greatly  annoyed  at  being 
made  to  look  foolish ;  and  at  having  his  spotless  cambric  shirt-front 
blotched  with  wine. 

"We  do  spoil  him  so,"  said  Lady  Clavering  to  Mrs.  Pendennis. 
fondly  gazing  at  the  cherub,  whose  hands  and  face  were  now  frothed 
over  with  the  species  of  lather  which  is  inserted  in  the  confection  called 
meringues  d  la  cretne. 

"  Gad,  I  was  quite  wight,"  said  the  baronet.  "  He  has  cwied,  and 
he  has  got  it,  you  see.     Go  it,  Fwank,  old  boy." 

"Sir  Francis  is  a  very  judicious  parent,"  Miss  Amory  whispered. 
"Don"t  you  think  so.  Miss  Bell.'  I  sha'nt  call  you  Miss  Bell— I  shall 
call  you  Laura.  I  admired  you  so  at  church.  Your  robe  was  not  well 
made,  nor  your  bonnet  very  fresh.  But  you  have  such  beautiful  grey 
eyes,  and  such  a  lovely  tint." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miss  Bell,  laughing. 


PENDENNIS.  213 

"Your  cousin  is  handsome,  and  thinks  so.  He  is  uneasy  de  sa 
pcrsoniic.  He  has  not  seen  the  world  yet.  Has  he  genius  ?  Has  he 
suffered  ?  A  lady,  a  little  woman  in  a  rumpled  satin  and  velvet  shoes 
—a  Miss  Pybus — came  here,  and  said  he  has  suffered.  I,  too,  have 
suffered, — and  you,  Laura,  has  your  heart  ever  been  touched.'"' 

Laura  said  "  No  !"  but  perhaps  blushed  a  little  at  the  idea  or  the 
question,  so  that  the  other  said, — 

"  Ah,  Laura  !  I  see  it  all.  It  is  the  beau  cousin.  Tell  me  every- 
thing.    I  already  love  you  as  a  sister." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Miss  Bell,  smiling,  "  and — and  it  must 
be  owned  that  it  is  a  very  sudden  attachment." 

"  All  attachments  are  so.  It  is  electricity — spontaneity.  It  is 
instantaneous.  I  knew  I  should  love  you  from  the  moment  I  saw  you. 
Do  you  not  feel  it  yourself.''" 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Laura;  "  but  I  daresay  I  shall  if  I  try." 

"  Call  me  by  my  name,  then." 

"  But  I  don't  know  it,"  Laura  cried  out. 

"  My  name  is  Blanche — isn't  it  a  pretty  name  ?     Call  me  by  it." 

"  Blanche — it  is  very  pretty  indeed." 

"  And  while  mamma  talks  with  that  kind-looking  lady — what 
relation  is  she  to  you  .''  She  must  have  been  pretty  once,  but  is 
x'H'CnCiX  passee J  she  is  not  well  gantee,  but  she  has  a  pretty  hand^and 
while  mamma  talks  to  her,  come  with  me  to  my  own  room,^ — my  own, 
own  room.  It's  a  darling  room,  though  that  horrid  creature.  Captain 
Strong,  did  arrange  it.  Are  you  epris  of  him?  He  says  you  are, 
but  I  know  better;  it  is  the  beau  cousin.  Yes—//  a  dc  beaux  yeux. 
Je  li'aime  pas  les  blonds  ordinairemeiit :  car  je  suis  blonde  tnoi—je 
sitis  Blanche  el  blonde" — and  she  looked  at  her  face  and  made  a  mone 
in  the  glass ;  and  never  stopped  for  Laura's  answer  to  the  questions 
which  she  had  put. 

Blanche  was  fair  and  like  a  sylph.  She  had  fair  hair,  with  green 
reflections  in  it.  But  she  had  dark  eyebrows.  She  had  long  black 
eyelashes,  which  veiled  beautiful  brown  eyes.  She  had  such  a  slim 
waist,  that  it  was  a  wonder  to  behold ;  and  such  slim  little  feet,  that 
you  would  have  thought  the  grass  would  hardly  bend  under  them. 
Her  lips  were  of  the  colour  of  faint  rosebuds,  and  her  voice  warbled 
limpidly  over  a  set  of  the  sweetest  little  pearly  teeth  ever  seen.  She 
showed  them  very  often,  for  they  were  very  pretty.  She  was  always 
smiling,  and  a  smile  not  only  showed  her  teeth  wonderfully,  but 
likewise  e.xhibited  two  lovely  little  pink  dimples,  that  nestled  in 
cither  cheek. 

She  showed  Laura  her  drawings,  which  the  other  thought  charming. 
She  played  her  some  of  her  waltzes,  with  a  rapid  and  brilliant  finger, 
and  Laura  was  still  more  charmed.     And  she  then  read  her  some 


214  PENDENNIS. 

poems,  in  French  and  English,  hkewise  of  her  own  composition,  and 
which  she  kept  locked  in  her  own  book — her  own  dear  little  book ;  it 
was  bound  in  blue  velvet,  with  a  gilt  lock,  and  on  it  was  printed  in  gold 
the  title  of  "  Mes  Larmes."' 

"'Ales  Larmes!' — isn't  it  a  pretty  name?"'  the  young  lady  con- 
tinued, who  was  pleased  with  everjthing  that  she  did,  and  did  ever>'- 
thing  very  well.  Laura  owned  that  it  was.  She  had  never  seen 
anything  like  it  before ;  anything  so  lovely,  so  accomplished,  so 
fragile  and  pretty;  warbling  so  prettily,  and  tripping  about  such  a 
pretty  room,  with  such  a  number  of  pretty  books,  pictures,  flowers, 
round  about  her.  The  honest  and  generous  country-  girl  forgot  even 
jealousy  in  her  admiration.  "  Indeed,  Blanche,"  she  said,  '•  even-- 
thing  in  the  room  is  pretty ;  and  you  are  the  prettiest  of  all.  The 
other  smiled,  looked  in  the  glass,  went  up  and  took  both  of  Laura's 
hands,  and  kissed  them,  and  sat  down  to  the  piano,  and  shook  out  a 
little  song. 

The  intimacy  between  the  young  ladies  sprang  up  like  Jack's 
beanstalk  to  the  skies  in  a  single  night.  The  large  footmen  were 
perpetually  walking  with  little  pink  notes  to  Fairoaks;  where  there 
was  a  pretty  housemaid  in  the  kitchen,  who  might  possibly  tempt 
those  gentlemen  to  so  humble  a  place.  Miss  Amory  sent  music,  or 
Miss  Amory  sent  a  new  novel,  or  a  picture  from  the  "  Journal  des 
Modes,"  to  Laura ;  or  my  lady's  compliments  arrived  with  flowers 
and  fruit;  or  Miss  Amory  begged  and  prayed  Miss  Bell  to  come 
to  dinner ;  and  dear  Airs.  Pendennis,  if  she  was  strong  enough ;  and 
Mr.  Arthur,  if  a  humdrum  party  were  not  too  stupid  for  him ;  and 
would  send  a  pony-carriage  for  Mrs.  Pendennis;  and  would  take 
no  denial. 

Neither  Arthur  nor  Laura  wished  to  refuse.  And  Helen,  who  was, 
indeed,  somewhat  ailing,  was  glad  that  the  two  should  have  their 
pleasure ;  and  would  look  at  them  fondly  as  they  set  forth,  and  ask 
in  her  heart  that  she  might  not  be  called  away  until  those  two  beings 
whom  she  loved  best  in  the  world  should  be  joined  together.  As 
they  went  out  and  crossed  over  the  bridge,  she  remembered  summer 
evenings  live-and-twenty  years  ago,  when  she,  too,  had  bloomed  in  her 
brief  prime  of  love  and  happiness.  It  was  all  over  now.  The  moon 
w^as  looking  from  the  purpling  sky,  and  the  stars  glittering  there,  just 
as  they  used  in  the  early  well-remembered  evenings.  He  was  lying 
dead  far  away,  with  the  billows  rolling  between  them.  Good  God ! 
how  well  she  remembered  the  last  look  of  his  face  as  they  parted.  It 
looked  out  at  her  through  the  vista  of  long  years,  as  sad  and  as  dear 
as  then. 

So  Mr.  Pen  and  Miss  Laura  found  the  socictvat  Clavcrins:  Park  an 


PENDENNIS.  215 

uncommonly  agreeable  resort  of  summer  evenings.  Blanche  vowed 
that  she  raffble'd  of  Laura ;  and,  very  likely,  Mr.  Pen  was  pleased  with 
Blanche.  His  spirits  came  back:  he  laughed  and  rattled  till  Laura 
wondered  to  hear  him.  It  was  not  the  same  Pen,  yawning  in  a 
shooting-jacket,  in  the  Fairoaks  parlour,  who  appeared  alert  and  brisk, 
and  smiling,  and  well-dressed,  in  Lady  Clavering's  drawing-room. 
Sometimes  they  had  music.  Laura  had  a  sweet  contralto  voice,  and 
sang  with  Blanche,  who  had  had  the  best  continental  instruction,  and 
was  charmed  to  be  her  friend's  mistress.  Sometimes  Mr.  Pen  joined 
in  these  concerts,  or  oftener  looked  sweet  upon  Miss  Blanche  as  she 
sang.  Sometimes  they  had  glees,  when  Captain  Strong's  chest  was  of 
vast  service,  and  he  boomed  out  in  a  prodigious  bass,  of  which  he  was 
not  a  little  proud. 

"Good  fellow,  Strong — ain't  he.  Miss  Bell.'"'  Sir  Francis  would 
say  to  her.  "  Plays  at  ecarte  with  Lady  Clavering — plays  anything, 
pitch  and  toss,  pianoforty,  cwibbage  if  you  like.  How  long  do  you 
think  he's  been  staying  with  me  "i  He  came  for  a  week  with  a 
carpet-bag,  and  Gad,  he's  been  staying  thwee  years.  Good  fellow, 
ain't  he.''  Don't  know  how  he  gets  a  shillin',  though,  by  Jove  I  don't, 
Miss  Lauwa." 

And  yet  the  Chevalier,  if  he  lost  his  money  to  Lady  Clavering, 
always  paid  it  ;  and  if  he  lived  with  his  friend  for  three  years,  paid  for 
that  too — in  good  humour,  in  kindness  and  joviality,  in  a  thousand 
little  services  by  which  he  made  himself  agreeable.  What  gentleman 
could  want  a  better  friend  than  a  man  who  was  always  in  spirits,  never 
in  the  way  or  out  of  it,  and  was  ready  to  execute  any  commission  for 
his  patron,  whether  it  was  to  sing  a  song  or  meet  a  lawyer,  to  fight  a 
duel,  or  to  carve  a  capon  ? 

Although  Laura  and  Pen  commonly  went  to  Clavering  Park 
together,  yet  sometimes  Mr.  Pen  took  walks  there  unattended  by 
her,  and  about  which  he  did  not  tell  her.  He  took  to  fishing  the 
Brawl,  which  runs  through  the  Park,  and  passes  not  very  far  from 
the  garden-wall ;  and  by  the  oddest  coincidence,  Miss  Amory  would 
walk  out  (having  been  to  look  at  her  flowers),  and  would  be  quite 
surprised  to  see  Mr.  Pendennis  fishing. 

I  wonder  what  trout  Pen  caught  while  the  young  lady  was  looking 
on  ?  or  whether  Miss  Blanche  was  the  pretty  httle  fish  which  played 
round  his  fly,  and  which  Mr.  Pen  was  endeavouring  to  hook  ? 

As  for  Miss  Blanche,  she  had  a  kind  heart;  and  having,  as  she 
owned,  herself  "  suffered  "  a  good  deal  in  the  course  of  her  brief  life 
and  experience — why,  she  could  compassionate  other  susceptible  beings 
like  Pen,  who  had  suffered  too.  Her  love  for  Laura  and  that  dear 
Mrs.  Pendennis  redoubled  :  if  threy  were  not  at  the  Park,  she  was  not 
easy  unless  she  herself  was  at  Fairoaks.     She  played  with  Laura ;  she 


2i6  PENDENNIS. 

read  French  and  German  with  Laura ;  and  Mr.  Pen  read  French  and 
German  along  with  them.  He  turned  sentimental  ballads  of  Schiller 
and  Goethe  into  English  verse  for  the  ladies,  and  Blanche  unlocked 
"  Mes  Larmes  "  for  him,  and  imparted  to  him  some  of  the  plaintive 
outpourings  of  her  own  tender  Muse. 

It  appeared  from  these  poems  that  the  young  creature  had  indeed 
suffered  prodigiously.  She  was  familiar  with  the  idea  of  suicide. 
Death  she  repeatedly  longed  for.  A  faded  rose  inspired  her  with  such 
grief  that  you  would  have  thought  she  must  die  in  pain  of  it.  It  was  a 
wonder  how  a  young  creature  should  have  suffered  so  much — should 
have  found  the  means  of  getting  at  such  an  ocean  of  despair  and 
passion  (as  a  run-away  boy  who  will  get  to  sea),  and  having  embarked 
on  it,  should  survive  it.  What  a  talent  she  must  have  had  for  weep- 
ing to  be  able  to  pour  out  so  many  of  "  Mes  Larmes  ! " 

They  were  not  particularly  briny.  Miss  Blanche's  tears,  that  is  the 
truth  ;  but  Pen,  who  read  her  verses,  thought  them  verj'  well  for  a 
lady — and  wrote  some  verses  himself  for  her.  His  were  ver)-  violent 
and  passionate,  very  hot,  sweet,  and  strong  :  and  he  not  only  wrote 
verses  ;  but — O,  the  villain  !  O,  the  deceiver  !  he  altered  and  adapted 
former  poems  in  his  possession,  and  which  had  been  composed  for  a 
certain  Miss  Emily  Fotheringay,  for  the  use  and  to  the  Christian  name 
of  Miss  Blanche  Amory. 


PENDENNIS.  217 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A     LITTLE     INNOCENT. 

«"C*  GAD,  Strong,"  one  day  the  Baronet  said,  as  the  pair  were  con- 
-L-'  versing  after  dinner  over  the  bilHard-table,  and  that  great 
unbosomer  of  secrets,  a  cigar — "  Egad,  Strong,  I  wish  to  the  doose 
your  wife  was  dead." 

"  So  do  I.  That's  a  cannon,  by  Jove  !  But  she  won't ;  she'll  live 
for  ever — you  see  if  she  don't.  Why  do  you  wish  her  off  the  hooks, 
Frank,  my  boy  1 "  asked  Captain  Strong. 

"  Because  then  you  might  marry  Missy.  She  ain't  bad-looking. 
She'll  have  ten  thousand,  and  that's  a  good  bit  of  money  for  such  a 
poor  old  devil  as  you,"  drawled  out  the  other  gentleman.  "  And  egad. 
Strong,  I  hate  her  worse  and  worse  every  day.  I  can't  stand  her. 
Strong  ;  by  gad,  I  can't." 

"  I  wouldn't  take  her  at  twice  the  figure,"  Captain  Strong  said, 
laughing.     "  I  never  saw  such  a  little  devil  in  my  life." 

"  I  should  like  to  poison  her,"  said  the  sententious  Baronet ;  "  by 
Jove  I  should." 

"  Why,  what  has  she  been  at  now  ? "  asked  his  friend. 

"  Nothing  particular,"  answered  Sir  Francis ;  "  only  her  old  tricks. 
That  girl  has  such  a  knack  of  making  everybody  miserable  that,  hang 
me,  it's  quite  surprising.  Last  night  she  sent  the  governess  crying 
away  from  the  dinner-table.  Afterwards,  as  I  was  passing  Frank's 
room,  I  heard  the  poor  little  beggar  howling  in  the  dark,  and  found 
his  sister  had  been  frightening  his  soul  out  of  his  body,  by  telling  him 
stories  about  the  ghost  that's  in  the  house.  At  lunch  she  gave  my 
lady  a  turn;  and  though  my  wife's  a  fool,  she's  a  good  soul — I'm 
hanged  if  she  ain't." 

"  What  did  Missy  do  to  her  ? "  Strong  asked. 

"  Why,  hang  me,  if  she  didn't  begin  talking  about  the  late  Amory, 
my  predecessor,"  the  Baronet  said,  with  a  grin.  "  She  got  some 
picture  out  of  '  the  Keepsake,'  and  said  she  was  sure  it  was  like  her 
dear  father.  She  wanted  to  know  where  her  father's  grave  was.  Hang 
her  father!  Whenever  Miss  Amory  talks  about  him.  Lady  Clavering 
always  bursts  out  crying :  and  the  little  devil  will  talk  about  him  in 
order  to  spite  her  mother.     To-day  when  she  be^an,  I  got  in  a  con- 


2i8  PENDENNIS. 

founded  rage,  said  I  was  her  father,  and — and  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
then,  sir,  she  took  a  shy  at  me.'"' 

"  And  what  did  she  say  about  you,  Frank  ? '"'  Mr.  Strong,  still 
laughing,  inquired  of  his  friend  and  patron. 

"  Gad,  she  said  I  wasn't  her  father  ;  that  I  wasn't  fit  to  compre- 
hend her;  that  her  father  must  have  been  a  man  of  genius,  and  fine 
feelings,  and  that  sort  of  thing  ;  whereas  1  had  married  her  mother  for 
money." 

"  Well,  didn't  you  ?  "  asked  Strong. 

"  It  don't  make  it  any  the  pleasanter  to  hear  because  it's  true,  don't 
you  know  ?  "  Sir  Francis  Clavering  answered.  "  I  ain't  a  literary  man 
and  that ;  but  I  ain't  such  a  fool  as  she  makes  me  out.  I  don't  know- 
how  it  is,  but  she  always  manages  to — to  put  me  in  the  hole,  don't 
you  understand  ?  She  turns  aU  the  house  round  her  in  her  quiet 
way,  and  with  her  confounded  sentimental  airs.  I  wish  she  was 
dead,  Ned." 

"  It  was  my  wife  whom  you  wanted  dead  just  now,"  Strong  said, 
always  in  perfect  good  humour;  upon  which  the  Baronet,  with  his 
accustomed  candour,  said,  "  Well,  when  people  bore  my  life  out,  I  do 
wish  they  were  dead,  and  I  wish  Missy  were  down  a  well  with  all  my 
heart." 

Thus  it  will  be  seen  from  the  above  report  of  this  candid  conver- 
sation that  our  accomplished  little  friend  had  some  peculiarities  or 
defects  of  character  which  rendered  her  not  very  popular.  She  was  a 
young  lady  of  some  genius,  exquisite  sympathies  and  considerable 
literary  attainments,  living,  like  many  another  genius,  with  relatives 
who  could  not  comprehend  her.  Neither  her  mother  nor  her  step- 
father were  persons  of  a  literarj'  turn.  "  BeU's  Life  "  and  the  "  Racing 
Calendar  "  were  the  extent  of  the  Baronet's  reading,  and  Lady  Claver- 
ing still  wrote  like  a  school-girl  of  thirteen,  and  with  an  extraordinary 
disregard  to  grammar  and  spelling.  And  as  Miss  Amor\'  felt  very 
keenly  that  she  was  not  appreciated,  and  that  she  lived  with  persons 
who  were  not  her  equals  in  intellect  or  conversational  power,  she  lost 
no  opportunity  to  acquaint  her  family  circle  with  their  inferiority  to 
herself,  and  not  only  was  a  martyr,  but  took  care  to  let  ever)-body 
know  that  she  was  so.  If  she  suffered,  as  she  said  and  thought  she 
did,  severely,  are  we  to  wonder  that  a  young  creature  of  such  delicate 
sensibilities  should  shriek  and  cry  out  a  good  deal  }  If  a  poetess  may 
not  bemoan  her  lot,  of  what  earthly  use  is  her  lyre  ?  Blanche  struck 
hers  only  to  the  saddest  of  tunes;  and  sang  elegies  over  her  dead 
hopes,  dirges  over  her  early  frost-nipt  buds  of  affection,  as  beoame  such 
a  melancholy  fate  and  Muse. 

Her  actual  distresses,  as  we  have  said,  had  not  been  up  to  the 
present  time  very  considerable ;  but  her  griefs  lay,  like  those  of  most 


PENDENNIS.  219 

of  us,  in  her  own  soul— that  being  sad  and  habitually  dissatisfied, 
what  wonder  that  she  should  weep  ?  So  "  Mes  Larmes"  dribbled  out 
of  her  eyes  any  day  at  command:  she  could  furnish  an  unlimited 
supply  of  tears,  and  her  faculty  of  shedding  them  increased  by  prac- 
tice. For  sentiment  is  like  another  complaint  mentioned  by  Horace, 
as  increasing  by  self-indulgence  (I  am  sorry  to  say,  ladies,  that  the 
complaint  in  question  is  called  the  dropsy),  and  the  more  you  cry,  the 
more  you  will  be  able  and  desirous  to  do  so. 

Missy  had  begun  to  gush  at  a  very  early  age.  Lamartine  was  her 
favourite  bard  from  the  period  when  she  first  could  feel ;  and  she  had 
subsequently  improved  her  mind  by  a  sedulous  study  of  novels  of  the 
great  modern  authors  of  the  French  language.  There  was  not  a 
romance  of  Balzac  and  George  Sand  which  the  indefatigable  little 
creature  had  not  devoured  by  the  time  she  was  sixteen :  and,  however 
little  she  sympathised  with  her  relatives  at  home,  she  had  friends,  as 
she  said,  in  the  spirit-world,  meaning  the  tender  Indiana,  the  pas- 
sionate and  poetic  Lelia,  the  amiable  Trenmor,  that  high-souled 
convict,  that  angel  of  the  galleys, — the  fiery  Stenio, — and  other  num- 
berless heroes  of  the  French  romances.  She  had  been  in  love  with 
Prince  Rodolph  and  Prince  Djalma  while  she  was  yet  at  school,  and 
had  settled  the  divorce  question,  and  the  rights  of  women,  with  Indiana, 
before  she  had  left  off  pinafores.  The  impetuous  little  lady  played  at 
love  with  these  imaginary  worthies,  as  a  little  while  before  she  had 
played  at  maternity  with  her  doll.  Pretty  little  poetical  spirits  !  it  is 
curious  to  watch  them  with  those  playthings.  To-day  the  blue-eyed 
one  is  the  favourite,  and  the  black-eyed  one  is  pushed  behind  the 
drawers.  To-morrow  blue-eyes  may  take  its  turn  of  neglect :  and  it 
may  be  an  odious  little  wretch  with  a  burnt  nose,  or  torn  head  of  hair, 
and  no  eyes  at  all,  that  takes  the  first  place  in  Miss's  affections,  and  is 
dandled  and  caressed  in  her  arms. 

As  novelists  are  supposed  to  know  everything,  even  the  secrets  of 
female  hearts,  which  the  owners  themselves  do  not  perhaps  know,  we 
may  state  that  at  eleven  years  of  age,  Mademoiselle  Betsi,  as  Miss 
Amory  was  then  called,  had  felt  tender  emotions  towards  a  young 
Savoyard  organ-grinder  at  Paris,  whom  she  persisted  in  believing  to 
be  a  prince  carried  off  from  his  parents ;  that  at  twelve  an  old  and 
hideous  drawing-master — (but,  ah,  what  age  or  personal  defects  are 
proof  against  woman's  love  ?)  had  agitated  her  young  heart ;  and  that, 
at  thirteen,  being  at  Madame  de  Carmel's  boarding-school,  in  the 
Champs  Elysdes,  which,  as  everybody  knows,  is  ne.xt  door  to  Monsieur 
Rogron's  (Chevalier  of  the  Legion  of  Honour)  pension  for  young  gen- 
tlemen, a  correspondence  by  letter  took  place  between  the  seduisante 
Miss  Betsi  and  two  young  gentlemen  of  the  College  of  Charlemagne, 
who  were  pensioners  of  the  Chevalier  Rogron. 


220  PENDENNIS. 

In  the  above  paragraph  our  young  friend  has  been  called  by  a 
Christian  name,  different  to  that  under  which  we  were  lately  presented 
to  her.  The  fact  is,  that  Miss  Amory,  called  Missy  at  home,  had 
really  at  the  first  been  christened  Betsy — but  assumed  the  name  of 
Blanche  of  her  own  will  and  fantasy,  and  crowned  herself  with  it;  and 
the  weapon  which  the  Baronet,  her  step-father,  held  in  terror  over  her, 
was  the  threat  to  call  her  publicly  by  her  name  of  Betsy,  by  which 
menace  he  sometimes  managed  to  keep  the  young  rebel  in  order. 

Blanche  had  had  hosts  of  dear,  dear,  darling  friends  ere  now,  and 
had  quite  a  little  museum  of  locks  of  hair  in  her  treasure-chest,  which 
she  had  gathered  in  the  course  of  her  sentimental  progress.  Some 
dear  friends  had  married :  some  had  gone  to  other  schools :  one 
beloved  sister  she  had  lost  from  the  pension,  and  found  again,  O 
horror !  her  darling,  her  L^ocadie,  keeping  the  books  in  her  father's 
shop,  a  grocer  in  the  Rue  du  Bac :  in  fact,  she  had  met  with  a  number 
of  disappointments,  estrangements,  disillusionments,  as  she  called 
them  in  her  pretty  French  jargon,  and  had  seen  and  suffered  a  great 
deal  for  so  young  a  woman.  But  it  is  the  lot  of  sensibility  to  suffer, 
and  of  confiding  tenderness  to  be  deceived,  and  she  felt  that  she  was 
only  undergoing  the  penalties  of  genius  in  these  pangs  and  disappoint- 
ments of  her  young  career. 

Meanwhile,  she  managed  to  make  the  honest  lady,  her  mother,  as 
uncomfortable  as  circumstances  would  permit ;  and  caused  her  worthy 
step-father  to  wish  she  was  dead.  With  the  exception  of  Captain 
Strong,  whose  invincible  good  humour  was  proof  against  her  sar- 
casms, the  little  lady  ruled  the  whole  house  with  her  tongue.  If  Lady 
Clavering  talked  about  Sparrowgrass  instead  of  Asparagus,  or  called 
an  object  a  hobject,  as  this  unfortunate  lady  would  sometimes  do, 
Missy  calmly  corrected  her,  and  frightened  the  good  soul  her  mother 
into  errors  only  the  more  frequent  as  she  grew  more  nerv-ous  under 
her  daughter's  eye. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  considering  the  vast  interest  which  the 
arrival  of  the  family  at  Clavering  Park  inspired  in  the  inhabitants 
of  the  little  town,  that  Madame  Fribsby  alone,  of  all  the  folks  in 
Clavering,  should  have  remained  unmoved  and  incurious.  At  the  first 
appearance  of  the  Park  family  in  church,  Madame  noted  evers-  article 
of  toilette  which  the  ladies  wore,  from  their  bonnets  to  their  brode- 
quins,  and  took  a  survey  of  the  attire  of  the  ladies'-maids  in  the  pew 
allotted  to  them.  We  fear  that  Doctor  Portman's  scniion,  though  it 
was  one  of  his  oldest  and  most  valued  compositions,  had  little  effect 
upon  Madame  Fribsby  on  that  day.  In  a  ver>-  few  days  afterwards, 
she  had  managed  for  herself  an  interview  with  Lady  Clavering's  con- 
fidential attendant,  in  the  housekeepers  room  at  the  Park;  and  hei 


PENDENNIS.  221 

cards  in  French  and  English,  stating  that  she  received  the  newest 
fashions  from  Paris  from  her  correspondent  Madame  Victorine,  and 
that  she  was  in  the  custom  of  making  court  and  ball  dresses  for  the 
nobility  and  gentry  of  the  shire,  were  in  the  possession  of  Lady 
Clavering  and  Miss  Amory,  and  favourably  received,  as  she  was 
happy  to  hear,  by  those  ladies. 

Mrs.  Bonner,  Lady  Clavering's  lady,  became  soon  a  great  fre- 
quenter of  Madame  Fribsby's  drawing-room,  and  partook  of  many 
entertainments  at  the  milliner's  expense.  A  meal  of  green  tea, 
scandal,  hot  Sally-Lunn  cakes,  and  a  little  novel-reading,  were 
always  at  the  service  of  Mrs.  Bonner,  whenever  she  was  free  to  pass 
an  evening  in  the  town.  And  she  found  much  more  time  for  these 
pleasures  than  her  junior  officer,  Miss  Amory's  maid,  who  seldom 
could  be  spared  for  a  holiday,  and  was  worked  as  hard  as  any  factory 
girl  by  that  inexorable  little  Muse,  her  mistress. 

And  there  was  another  person  connected  with  the  Clavering  estab- 
lishment, who  became  a  constant  guest  of  our  friend,  the  milliner. 
This  was  the  chief  of  the  kitchen.  Monsieur  Mirobolant,  with  whom 
Madame  Fribsby  soon  formed  an  intimacy. 

Not  having  been  accustomed  to  the  appearance  or  society  of 
persons  of  the  French  nation,  the  rustic  inhabitants  of  Clavering 
were  not  so  favourably  impressed  by  Monsieur  Alcide's  manners  and 
appearance,  as  that  gentleman  might  have  desired  that  they  should 
be.  He  walked  among  them  quite  unsuspiciously  upon  the  afternoon 
of  a  summer  day,  when  his  services  were  not  required  at  the  House,  in 
his  usual  favourite  costume,  namely,  his  light  green  frock  or  paletot, 
his  crimson  velvet  waistcoat,  with  blue  glass  buttons,  his  pantalon 
Ecossais,  of  a  very  large  and  decided  check  pattern,  his  orange  satin 
neckcloth,  and  his  jean-boots,  with  tips  of  shiny  leather, — these,  with 
a  gold-embroidered  cap,  and  a  richly-gilt  cane,  or  other  varieties  of 
ornament  of  a  similar  tendency,  formed  his  usual  holiday  costume, 
in  which  he  flattered  himself  there  was  nothing  remarkable  (unless, 
indeed,  the  beauty  of  his  person  should  attract  observation),  and  in 
which  he  considered  that  he  exhibited  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman 
of  good  Parisian  ton. 

He  walked  then  down  the  street,  grinning  and  ogling  every  woman 
he  met  with  glances,  which  he  meant  should  kill  them  outright,  and 
peered  over  the  railings,  and  in  at  the  windows,  where  females  were, 
in  the  tranquil  summer  evening.  But  Betsy,  Mrs.  Pybus's  maid, 
shrank  back  with  a  "  Lor'  bless  us ! "  as  Alcide  ogled  her  over  the 
laurel  bush;  the  Miss  Bakers,  and  their  mamma,  stared  with  wonder; 
and  presently  a  crowd  began  to  follow  the  interesting  foreigner,  of 
ragged  urchins  and  children,  who  left  their  dirt -pies  in  the  street  to 
pursue  him. 


222  FENDENNIS. 

For  some  time  he  thought  that  admiration  was  the  cause  which 
led  these  persons  in  his  wake,  and  walked  on,  pleased  himself  that  he 
could  so  easily  confer  on  others  so  much  harmless  pleasure.  But  the 
little  children  and  dirt-pie  manufacturers  were  presently  succeeded 
by  followers  of  a  larger  growth,  and  a  number  of  lads  and  girls  from 
the  factory  being  let  loose  at  this  hour,  joined  the  mob,  and  began 
laughing,  jeering,  hooting,  and  calling  opprobrious  names  at  the 
Frenchman.  Some  cried  out,  "  Frenchy !  Frenchy  !"  some  exclaimed 
"  Frogs ! "  one  asked  for  a  lock  of  his  hair,  which  was  long  and  in 
richly-flowing  ringlets ;  and  at  length  the  poor  artist  began  to  perceive 
that  he  was  an  object  of  derision  rather  than  of  respect  to  the  rude 
grinning  mob. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Madame  Fribsby  spied  the  unlucky 
gentleman  with  the  train  at  his  heels,  and  heard  the  scornful  shouts 
with  which  they  assailed  him.  She  ran  out  of  her  room,  and  across 
the  street  to  the  persecuted  foreigner;  she  held  out  her  hand,  and, 
addressing  him  in  his  own  language,  invited  him  into  her  abode ;  and 
when  she  had  housed  him  fairly  within  her  door,  she  stood  bravely 
at  the  threshold  before  the  gibing  factory  girls  and  boys,  and  said  they 
were  a  pack  of  cowards  to  insult  a  poor  man  who  could  not  speak  their 
language,  and  was  alone  and  without  protection.  The  little  crowd, 
with  some  ironical  cheers  and  hootings,  nevertheless  felt  the  force  of 
Madame  Fribsby's  vigorous  allocution,  and  retreated  before  her;  for 
the  old  lady  was  rather  respected  in  the  place,  and  her  oddity  and 
her  kindness  had  made  her  many  friends  there. 

Poor  Mirobolant  was  grateful  indeed  to  hear  the  language  of  his 
country  ever  so  iU  spoken.  Frenchmen  pardon  our  faults  in  their 
language  much  more  readily  than  we  excuse  their  bad  English ;  and 
will  face  our  blunders  throughout  a  long  conversation,  without  the  least 
propensity  to  grin.  The  rescued  artist  vowed  that  Madame  Fribsby 
was  his  guardian  angel,  and  that  he  had  not  as  yet  met  with  such 
suavity  and  pohteness  among  les  Anglaises.  He  was  as  courteous 
and  complimentaiy  to  her  as  if  it  was  the  fairest  and  noblest  of  ladies 
whom  he  was  addressing ;  for  Alcide  Mirobolant  paid  homage  after 
his  fashion  to  all  womankind,  and  never  dreamed  of  a  distinction  of 
ranks  in  the  realms  of  beauty,  as  his  phrase  was. 

A  cream,  flavoured  with  pine-apple — a  mayonnaise  of  lobster, 
which  he  flattered  himself  was  not  unworthy  of  his  hand,  or  of  her 
to  whom  he  had  the  honour  to  offer  it  as  an  homage,  and  a  box  of 
presened  fruits  of  Provence,  were  brought  by  one  of  the  chefs 
aides-de-camp,  in  a  basket,  the  next  day,  to  the  milliner's,  and  were 
accompanied  with  a  gallant  note  to  the  amiable  Madame  Fribsby. 
"  Her  kindness,"  Alcides  said,  "  had  made  a  green  place  in  the  desert 
of  his  existence, — her  suavity  would  ever  contrast  in  memor}'  with  the 


PENDENNIS.  223 

gi'ossieretS  of  the  rustic  population,  who  weie  not  worthy  to  possess 
such  a  jewel."  An  intimacy  of  the  most  confidential  nature  thus 
sprang  up  between  the  milliner  and  the  chief  of  the  kitchen ;  but  I  do 
not  know  whether  it  was  with  pleasure  or  mortification  that  Madame 
received  the  declarations  of  friendship  which  the  young  Alcides  prof- 
fered to  her,  for  he  persisted  in  calling  her,  "  La  respectable  Fribsbi^' 
"  La  vertiieiise  Fribsbi" — and  in  stating  that  he  should  consider  her 
as  his  mother,  while  he  hoped  she  would  regard  him  as  her  son.  Ah ! 
it  was  not  very  long  ago,  Fribsby  thought,  that  words  had  been 
addressed  to  her  in  that  dear  French  language,  indicating  a  different 
sort  of  attachment.  And  she  sighed  as  she  looked  up  at  the  picture  of 
her  Carabineer.  For  it  is  surprising  how  young  some  people's  hearts 
remain  when  their  heads  have  need  of  a  front  or  a  little  hair-dye,  and, 
at  this  moment,  Madame  Fribsby,  as  she  told  young  Alcide,  felt  as 
romantic  as  a  girl  of  eighteen. 

When  the  conversation  took  this  turn — and  at  their  first  intimacy 
Madame  Fribsby  was  rather  inclined  so  to  lead  it — Alcide  always 
politely  diverged  to  another  subject :  it  was  as  his  mother  that  he  per- 
sisted in  considering  the  good  milliner.  He  would  recognize  her  in  no 
other  capacity,  and  with  that  relationship  the  gentle  lady  was  forced 
to  content  herself,  when  she  found  how  deeply  the  artist's  heart  was 
engaged  elsewhere. 

He  was  not  long  before  he  described  to  her  the  subject  and  origin 
of  his  passion. 

"  I  declared  myself  to  her,"  said  Alcide,  laying  his  hand  on  his 
heart,  "  in  a  manner  which  was  as  novel  as  I  am  charmed  to  think  it 
was  agreeable.  Where  cannot  Love  penetrate,  respectable  Madame 
Fribsbi  ?  Cupid  is  the  father  of  invention  !  —  I  inquired  of  the 
domestics  what  were  the  plats  of  which  Mademoiselle  partook  with 
most  pleasure,  and  built  up  my  little  battery  accordingly.  On  a  day 
when  her  parents  had  gone  to  dine  in  the  world  (and  I  am  grieved  to 
say  that  a  grossier  dinner  at  a  restaurant,  on  the  Boulevard,  or  in 
the  Palais  Royal,  seemed  to  form  the  delights  of  these  unrefined 
persons),  the  charming  Miss  entertained  some  comrades  of  the 
pension  ;  and  I  advised  myself  to  send  up  a  little  repast  suitable  to 
so  delicate  young  palates.  Her  lovely  name  is  Blanche.  The  veil  of 
the  maiden  is  white ;  the  wreath  of  roses  which  she  wears  is  white. 
I  determined  that  my  dinner  should  be  as  spotless  as  the  snow.  At 
her  accustomed  hour,  and  instead  of  the  rude  gigot  il  lean  which  was 
ordinarily  served  at  her  too  simple  table,  I  sent  her  up  a  \\n\c  potage 
a  la  Reine—a  la  Rcine  Blanche  I  called  it,— as  white  as  her  own  tint, 
and  confectioned  with  the  most  fragrant  cream  and  almonds.  I  then 
offered  up  at  her  shrine  ?i  filet  de  vierlan  ct  P Agnes,  and  a  delicate 
plat,  which  I  have  designated  as  Eperlan  d,  la  Sainte  Therlse,  and  of 


224  PENDENNIS. 

which  my  charming  INIiss  partook  with  pleasure.  I  followed  this  by 
two  little  entrees  of  sweetbread  and  chicken ;  and  the  only  brown 
thing  which  I  permitted  myself  in  the  entertainment  was  a  little  roast 
of  lamb,  which  I  laid  in  a  meadow  of  spinaches,  surrounded  with 
croustillons,  representing  sheep,  and  ornamented  with  daisies  and 
other  savage  flowers.  After  this  came  my  second  ser\ice :  a  pudding 
a  la  Reine  Elizabeth  (who,  Madame  Fribsbi  knows,  was  a  maiden 
princess) ;  a  dish  of  opal-coloured  plovers'  eggs,  which  I  called  Nid 
lie  toiirtereatix  a  la  Roiicotdej  placing  in  the  midst  of  them  two  of 
those  tender  volatiles,  billing  each  other,  and  confectioned  with 
butter ;  a  basket  containing  little  gateaux  of  apricots,  which  I  know 
all  young  ladies  adore;  and  a  jelly  of  marasquin,  bland,  insinuating, 
intoxicating  as  the  glance  of  beauty.  This  I  designated  Ambroisie  de 
Calypso  a  la  Souveraine  de  mon  Ccsur.  And  when  the  ice  was  brought 
in — an  ice  o^ plotnbiere  and  cherries — how  do  you  think  I  had  shaped 
them,  Madame  Fribsbi?  In  the  form  of  two  hearts  united  with  an 
arrow,  on  which  I  had  laid,  before  it  entered,  a  bridal  veil,  in  cut- 
paper,  surmounted  by  a  wreath  of  virginal  orange-flowers.  I  stood 
at  the  door  to  watch  the  effect  of  this  entry.  It  was  but  one  cry  of 
admiration.  The  three  young  ladies  filled  their  glasses  with  the 
sparkling  Ay,  and  carried  me  in  a  toast.  I  heard  it — I  heard  Miss  speak 
of  me — I  heard  her  say, '  Tell  Monsieur  Mirobolant  that  we  thank  him 
— we  admire  him — we  love  him  ! '  My  feet  almost  failed  me  as  she  spoke. 

"  Since  that,  can  I  have  any  reason  to  doubt  that  the  young  artist 
has  made  some  progress  in  the  heart  of  the  F.nglish  Miss  ?  I  am 
modest,  but  my  glass  informs  me  that  I  am  not  ill-looking.  Other 
victories  have  convinced  me  of  the  fact." 

"  Dangerous  man !  "  cried  the  milliner. 

"  The  blonde  misses  of  Albion  see  nothing  in  the  dull  inhabitants 
of  their  brumous  isle,  which  can  compare  with  the  ardour  and  vivacity 
of  the  children  of  the  South.  We  bring  our  sunshine  with  us  ;  we  are 
Frenchmen,  and  accustomed  to  conquer.  Were  it  not  for  this  affair 
of  the  heart,  and  my  determination  to  marry  an  Anglaise,  do  you  think 
I  would  stop  in  this  island  (which  is  not  altogether  ungrateful,  since  I 
have  found  here  a  tender  mother  in  the  respectable  Madame  Fribsbi), 
in  this  island,  in  this  family  .^  My  genius  would  use  itself  in  the  com- 
pany of  these  rustics — the  poesy  of  my  art  cannot  be  understood  by 
these  carnivorous  insularies.  No — the  men  are  odious,  but  the  women 
— the  women,  I  own,  dear  Fribsbi,  are  seducing !  I  have  vowed  to 
marry  one :  and  as  I  cannot  go  into  your  markets  and  purchase, 
according  to  the  custom  of  the  country,  I  am  resolved  to  adopt 
another  custom,  and  fly  with  one  to  Gretna  Grin.  The  blonde  Miss 
will  go.  She  is  fascinated.  Her  eyes  have  told  me  so.  The  white 
dove  wants  but  the  signal  to  fly." 


PENDENNIS.  225 

"Have  you  any  correspondence  with  her?"  asked  Fribsby,  in 
amazement,  and  not  knowing  whether  the  young  lady  or  the  lover 
might  be  labouring  under  a  romantic  delusion. 

"  I  correspond  with  her  by  means  of  my  art.  She  partakes  of 
dishes  which  I  make  expressly  for  her.  I  insinuate  to  her  thus  a 
thousand  hints,  which,  as  she  is  perfectly  spiritual,  she  receives.  But 
I  want  other  intelligences  near  her." 

"  There  is  Pincott,  her  maid,"  said  Madame  Fribsby,  who,  by 
aptitude  or  education,  seemed  to  have  some  knowledge  of  affairs  of 
the  heart,  but  the  great  artist's  brow  darkened  at  this  suggestion. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  there  are  points  upon  which  a  gallant  man 
ought  to  silence  himself;  though,  if  he  break  the  secret,  he  may  do  so 
with  the  least  impropriety  to  his  best  friend — his  adopted  mother. 
Know  then,  that  there  is  a  cause  why  Miss  Pincott  should  be  hostile 
to  me — a  cause  not  uncommon  with  your  sex — ^jealousy." 

"  Perfidious  monster ! "  said  the  confidante. 

"  Ah,  no,"  said  the  artist,  with  a  deep  bass  voice,  and  a  tragic 
accent  worthy  of  the  Porte  St.  Martin  and  his  favourite  melo-drames, 
"  not  perfidious,  but  fatal.  Yes,  I  an:  a  fatal  man,  Madame  Fribsbi. 
To  inspire  hopeless  passion  is  my  destiny.  I  cannot  help  it  that 
women  love  me.  Is  it  my  fault  that  that  young  woman  deperishes 
and  languishes  to  the  view  of  the  eye,  consumed  by  a  flame  which  I 
cannot  return  ?  Listen !  There  are  others  in  this  family  who  are 
similarly  unhappy.  The  governess  of  the  young  Milor  has  encountered 
me  in  my  walks,  and  looked  at  me  in  a  way  which  can  bear  but  one 
interpretation.  And  Milady  herself,  who  is  of  mature  age,  but  who 
has  oriental  blood,  has  once  or  twice  addressed  compliments  to  the 
lonely  artist  which  can  admit  of  no  mistake.  I  avoid  the  household, 
I  seek  solitude,  I  undergo  my  destiny.  I  can  marry  but  one,  and  am 
resolved  it  shall  be  to  a  lady  of  your  nation.  And,  if  her  fortune  is 
sufficient,  I  think  Miss  would  be  the  person  who  would  be  most 
suitable.  I  wish  to  ascertain  what  her  means  are  before  I  lead  her  to 
Gretna  Grin." 

Whether  Alcide  was  as  irresistible  a  conqueror  as  his  namesake,  or 
whether  he  was  simply  crazy,  is  a  point  which  must  be  left  to  the 
reader's  judgment.  But  the  latter,  if  he  has  had  the  benefit  of  much 
French  acquaintance,  has  perhaps  met  with  men  amongst  them  who 
fancied  themselves  almost  as  invincible ;  and  who,  if  you  credit  them, 
have  made  equal  havoc  in  the  hearts  oi  Ics  Aitglafses. 


IS 


226  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

CONTAINS   BOTH   LOVE   AND  JEALOUSY. 

OUR  readers  have  already  heard  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  candid 
opinion  of  the  lady  who  had  given  him  her  fortune  and  restored 
him  to  his  native  country  and  home,  and  it  must  be  owned  that  the 
baronet  was  not  far  wrong  in  his  estimate  of  his  wife,  and  that  Lady 
Clavering  was  not  the  wisest  or  the  best  educated  of  women.  She 
had  had  a  couple  of  years'  education  in  Europe,  in  a  suburb  of 
London,  which  she  persisted  in  calling  'Ackney  to  her  dying  day, 
whence  she  had  been  summoned  to  join  her  father  at  Calcutta  at  the 
age  of  fifteen.  And  it  was  on  her  voyage  thither,  on  board  the  Ram- 
chunder  East  Indiaman,  Captain  Bragg,  in  which  ship  she  had  two 
years  previously  made  her  journey  to  Europe,  that  she  formed  the 
acquaintance  of  her  first  husband,  Mr.  Amory,  who  was  third  mate  of 
the  vessel  in  question. 

We  are  not  going  to  enter  into  the  early  part  of  Lady  Clavering's 
histor}',  but  Captain  Bragg,  under  whose  charge  Miss  Snell  went  out 
to  her  father,  who  was  one  of  the  Captain's  consignees,  and  part  owner 
of  the  Ramchunder  and  many  other  vessels,  found  reason  to  put  the 
rebellious  rascal  of  a  mate  in  irons,  until  they  reached  the  Cape,  where 
the  Captain  left  his  officer  behind :  and  finally  delivered  his  ward  to 
her  father  at  Calcutta,  after  a  stormy  and  perilous  voyage  in  which  the 
Ramchunder  and  the  cargo  and  passengers  incurred  no  small  danger 
and  damage. 

Some  months  afterwards  Amor}'  made  his  appearance  at  Calcutta, 
having  worked  his  way  out  before  the  mast  from  the  Cape — married 
the  rich  Attorney's  daughter  in  spite  of  that  old  speculator — set  up  as 
indigo-planter  and  failed — set  up  as  agent  and  failed  again — set  up 
as  editor  of  the  "  Sunderbund  Pilot "  and  failed  again — quarrelling 
ceaselessly  with  his  father-in-law  and  his  wife  during  the  progress  of 
all  these  mercantile  transactions  and  disasters,  and  ending  his  career 
finally  with  a  crash  which  compelled  him  to  leave  Calcutta  and  go  to 
New  South  Wales.  It  was  in  the  course  of  these  luckless  proceedings, 
that  Mr.  Amor>' probably  made  the  acquaintance  of  Sir  Jasper  Rogers, 
the  respected  Judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Calcutta,  who  has  been 
mentioned  before :  and,  as  the  truth  must  out,  it  was  by  making  an 


PE.WDEANIS. 


227 


improper  use  of  his  father-in-law's  name,  who  could  write  perfectly 
well,  and  had  no  need  of  an  amanuensis,  that  fortune  finally  forsook 
Mr.  Amory  and  caused  him  to  abandon  all  further  struggles  with  her. 

Not  being  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  Calcutta  law-reports  very 
assiduously,  the  European  public  did  not  know  of  these  facts  as  well 
as  people  did  in  Bengal,  and  Mrs.  Amory  and  her  father  finding  her 
residence  in  India  not  a  comfortable  one,  it  was  agreed  that  the  lady 
should  return  to  Europe,  whither  she  came  with  her  little  daughter 
Betsy  or  Blanche,  then  four  years  old.  They  were  accompanied  by 
Betsy's  nurse,  who  has  been  presented  to  the  reader  in  the  last  chapter 
as  the  confidential  maid  of  Lady  Clavering,  Mrs.  Bonner:  and  Captain 
Bragg  took  a  house  for  them  in  the  near  neighbourhood  of  his  residence 
in  Pocklington  Street. 

It  was  a  very  hard  bitter  summer,  and  the  rain  it  rained  every  day 
for  some  time  after  Mrs.  Amory's  arrival.      Bragg  was  very  pompous 
and  disagreeable,  perhaps  ashamed,  perhaps  anxious,  to  get  rid  of  the 
Indian  lady.      She  believed  that  all  the  world  in  London  was  talking 
about  her  husband's  disaster,  and  that  the  King  and  Queen  and  tlie 
Court  of  Directors  were  aware  of  her  unlucky  history.      She  had  a 
good  allowance  from  her  father  ;  she  had  no  call  to  live  in  England ; 
and  she  determined  to  go  abroad.      Away  she  went,  then,  glad  to 
escape  the  gloomy  surveillance  of  the  odious  bully.   Captain  Bragg. 
People  had  no  objection  to  receive  her  at  the  continental  towns  where 
she  stopped,  and  at  the  various  boarding-houses,  where  she  royally 
paid  her  way.    She  called  Hackney  'Ackney,  to  be  sure  (though  other- 
wise she  spoke  English  with  a  little  foreign  twang,  very  curious  and 
not  unpleasant) ;  she  dressed  amazingly ;  she  was  conspicuous  for  her 
love  of  eating  and  drinking,  and  prepared  curries  and  pillaus  at  every 
boarding-house  which  she  frequented ;  but  her  singularities  of  language 
and  behaviour  only  gave  a  zest  to  her  society,  and  Mrs.  Amory  was 
deservedly   popular.     She   was   the   most   good-natured,  jovial,   and 
generous  of  women.      She  was  up  to  any  party  of  pleasure  by  whom- 
soever proposed.    She  brought  three  times  more  champagne  and  fowls 
and  ham  to  the  picnics  than  any  one  else.     She  took  endless  boxes  for 
the  play,  and  tickets  for  the  masked  balls,  and  gave  them  away  to 
everybody.     She  paid  the  boarding-house  people  months  bcforeliand  ; 
she   helped   poor   shabby   mustachiod   bucks   and   dowagers,   whose 
remittances  had  not  arrived,  with  constant  supplies  from  her  purse; 
and  in  this  way  she  tramped  through  Europe,  and  appeared  at  Brussels, 
at  Paris,  at  Milan,  at  Naples,  at  Rome,  as  her  fancy  led  her.    News  of 
Amory's  death  reached  her  at  the  latter  place,  where  Captain  Clavering 
was  then  staying,  unable    to  pay  his  hotel  bill,  as,  indeed,  was  his 
friend,  the  Chevalier  Strong,  and  the  good-natured  widow  married  the 
descendant  of  the  ancient  house  of  Clavering— professing,  indeed,  no 


228  PENDEN.WIS. 

particular  grief  for  the  scapegrace  of  a  husband  whom  she  had  lost : 
and  thus  we  have  brought  her  up  to  the  present  time  when  she  was 
mistress  of  Clavering  Park, 

Missy  followed  her  mamma  in  most  of  her  peregrinations,  and  so 
learned  a  deal  of  life.  She  had  a  governess  for  some  time ;  and  after 
her  mother's  second  marriage,  the  benefit  of  Madame  de  Caramel's 
select  pension  in  the  Champs  Elysees.  When  the  Claverings  came 
to  England,  she  of  course  came  with  them.  It  was  only  within  a  few 
years,  after  the  death  of  her  grandfather,  and  the  birth  of  her  little 
brother,  that  she  began  to  understand  that  her  position  in  life  was 
altered,  and  that  Miss  Amorj',  nobody's  daughter,  was  a  ven>'  small 
personage  in  a  house  compared  with  Master  Francis  Clavering,  heir 
to  an  ancient  baronetcy,  and  a  noble  estate.  But  for  little  Frank,  she 
would  have  been  an  heiress,  in  spite  of  her  father :  and  though  she 
knew  and  cared  not  much  about  money,  of  which  she  never  had  any 
stint,  and  though  she  was  a  romantic  little  Muse,  as  we  have  seen,  yet 
she  could  not  reasonably  be  grateful  to  the  persons  who  had  so  con- 
tributed to  change  her  condition  :  nor,  indeed,  did  she  understand 
what  the  matter  really  was,  until  she  had  made  some  further  progress, 
and  acquired  more  accurate  knowledge  in  the  world. 

But  this  was  clear,  that  her  step-father  was  duU  and  weak:  that 
mamma  dropped  her  //"s,  and  was  not  refined  in  manners  or  appear- 
ance ;  and  that  little  Frank  was  a  spoiled  quarrelsome  urchin,  always 
having  his  way,  always  treading  upon  her  feet,  always  upsetting  his 
dinner  on  her  dresses,  and  keeping  her  out  of  her  inheritance.  None 
of  these,  as  she  felt,  could  comprehend  her  :  and  her  solitary  heart 
naturally  pined  for  other  attachments,  and  she  sought  around  her  where 
to  bestow  the  precious  boon  of  her  unoccupied  affection. 

This  dear  girl,  then,  from  want  of  sympathy,  or  other  cause,  made 
herself  so  disagreeable  at  home,  and  frightened  her  mother,  and  bored 
her  step-father  so  much,  that  they  were  quite  as  anxious  as  she  could 
be  that  she  should  settle  for  herself  in  life  ;  and  hence  Sir  Francis 
Clavering's  desire  expressed  to  his  friend,  in  the  last  chapter,  that 
Mrs.  Strong  should  die.  and  that  he  would  take  Blanche  to  himself 
as  a  second  ]\Irs.  Strong. 

But  as  this  could  not  be,  any  other  person  was  welcome  to  win 
her:  and  a  smart  young  fellow,  well-looking  and  well  educated,  like 
our  friend  Arthur  Pendennis,  was  quite  free  to  propose  for  her  if  he 
had  a  mind,  and  would  have  been  received  with  open  arms  by  Lady 
Clavering  as  a  son-in-law,  had  he  had  the  courage  to  come  forward  as 
a  competitor  for  Miss  Amory's  hand. 

Mr.  Pen,  however,  besides  other  drawbacks,  chose  to  entertain 
an  extreme  diffidence  about  himself  He  was  ashamed  of  his  late 
failures,  of  his  idle  and  nameless  condition,  of  the  poverty  which  he 


PENDENNIS.  229 

had  brought  on  his  mother  by  his  folly,  and  there  was  as  much  of 
vanity  as  remorse  in  his  present  state  of  doubt  and  distrust.  How 
could  he  ever  hope  for  such  a  prize  as  this  brilliant  Blanche  Amory, 
who  lived  in  a  fine  park  and  mansion,  and  was  waited  on  by  a  score 
of  grand  domestics,  whilst  a  maid-servant  brought  in  their  meagre 
meal  at  Fairoaks,  and  his  mother  was  obliged  to  pinch  and  manage 
to  make  both  ends  meet  ?  Obstacles  seemed  to  him  insurmountable, 
which  would  have  vanished  had  he  marched  manfully  upon  them : 
and  he  preferred  despairing,  or  dallying  with  his  wishes, — or  perhaps 
he  had  not  positively  shaped  them  as  yet, — to  attempting  to  win 
gallantly  the  object  of  his  desire.  Many  a  young  man  fails  by  that 
species  of  vanity  called  shyness,  who  might,  for  the  asking,  have 
his  will. 

But  we  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  Pen  had,  as  yet,  ascertained 
his :  or  that  he  was  doing  much  more  than  thinking  about  falling  in 
love.  Miss  Amory  was  charming  and  lively.  She  fascinated  and 
cajoled  him  by  a  thousand  arts  or  natural  graces  or  flatteries.  But 
there  were  lurking  reasons  and  doubts,  besides  shyness  and  vanity, 
withholding  him.  In  spite  of  her  cleverness,  and  her  protestations, 
and  her  fascinations.  Pen's  mother  had  divined  the  girl,  and  did  not 
trust  her.  Mrs.  Pendennis  saw  Blanche  light-minded  and  frivolous, 
detected  many  wants  in  her  which  offended  the  pure  and  pious- 
minded  lady;  a  want  of  reverence  for  her  parents,  and  for  things 
more  sacred,  Helen  thought :  worldliness  and  selfishness  couched 
under  pretty  words  and  tender  expressions.  Laura  and  Pen  battled 
these  points  strongly  at  first  with  the  widow — Laura  being  as  yet 
enthusiastic  about  her  new  friend,  and  Pen  not  far-gone  enough  in 
love  to  attempt  any  concealment  of  his  feelings.  He  would  laugh  at 
these  objections  of  Helen's,  and  say,  "  Psha,  mother!  you  are  jealous 
about  Laura — all  women  are  jealous." 

But  when,  in  the  course  of  a  month  or  two,  and  by  watching  the 
pair  with  that  anxiety  with  which  brooding  women  watch  over  their 
sons'  affections — and  in  acknowledging  which,  I  have  no  doubt  there 
is  a  sexual  jealousy  on  the  mother's  part,  and  a  secret  pang — when 
Helen  saw  that  the  intimacy  appeared  to  make  progress,  that  the  two 
young  people  were  perpetually  finding  pretexts  to  meet,  and  that 
Miss  Blanche  was  at  Fairoaks  or  Mr.  Pen  at  the  park  every  day,  the 
poor  widow's  heart  began  to  fail  her— her  darling  project  seemed  to 
vanish  before  her  ;  and,  giving  way  to  her  weakness,  she  fairly  told 
Pen  one  day  what  her  views  and  longings  were ;  that  she  felt  herself 
breaking,  and  not  long  for  this  world,  and  that  she  hoped  and  prayed 
before  she  went,  that  she  might  see  her  two  children  one.  The  late 
events.  Pen's  life  and  career  and  former  passion  for  the  actress,  had 
broken  the  spirit  of  this  tender  lady.     She  felt  that  he  had  escaped 


230  PENDENNIS. 

her,  and  was  in  the  maternal  nest  no  more :  and  she  clung  with  a 
sickening  fondness  to  Laura,  Laura  who  had  been  left  to  her  by 
Francis  in  Heaven. 

Pen  kissed  and  soothed  her  in  his  grand  patronising  way.  He 
had  seen  something  of  this,  he  had  long  thought  his  mother  wanted 
to  make  this  marriage — did  Laura  know  anything  of  it  ?  (Not  she, — 
Mrs.  Pendennis  said — not  for  worlds  would  she  have  breathed  a  word 
of  it  to  Laura) — "  Well,  well,  there  was  time  enough,  his  mother 
wouldn't  die,"  Pen  said,  laughingly :  "  he  wouldn't  hear  of  any  such 
thing,  and  as  for  the  Muse,  she  is  too  grand  a  lady  to  think  about 
poor  little  me — and  as  for  Laura,  who  knows  that  she  would  have 
me?  She  would  do  anything  you  told  her,  to  be  sure.  But  am  I 
worthy  of  her  ?  " 

"  O,  Pen,  you  might  be,"  was  the  widow's  reply ;  not  that  Mr.  Pen 
ever  doubted  that  he  was ;  and  a  feeling  of  indefinable  pleasure  and 
self-complacency  came  over  him  as  he  thought  over  this  proposal,  and 
imaged  Laura  to  himself,  as  his  memory  remembered  her  for  years 
past,  always  fair  and  open,  kindly  and  pious,  cheerful,  tender,  and  true. 
He  looked  at  her  with  brightening  eyes  as  she  came  in  from  the  garden 
at  the  end  of  this  talk,  her  cheeks  rather  flushed,  her  looks  frank  and 
smiling — a  basket  of  roses  in  her  hand. 

She  took  the  finest  of  them  and  brought  it  to  Mrs.  Pendennis,  who 
was  refreshed  by  the  odour  and  colour  of  these  flowers ;  and  hung  over 
her  fondly  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"  And  I  might  have  this  prize  for  the  asking ! "  Pen  thought,  with 
a  thrill  of  triumph,  as  he  looked  at  the  kindly  girl.  "  Why,  she  is  as 
beautiful  and  as  generous  as  her  roses."  The  image  of  the  two  women 
remained  for  ever  after  in  his  mind,  and  he  never  recalled  it  but  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

Before  very  many  weeks'  intimacy  with  her  new  acquaintance, 
however,  Miss  Laura  was  obliged  to  give  in  to  Helen's  opinion,  and 
own  that  the  Muse  was  selfish,  unkind,  and  inconstant. 

Little  Frank,  for  instance,  might  be  very  provoking,  and  might 
have  deprived  Blanche  of  her  mamma's  affection,  but  this  was  no 
reason  why  Blanche  should  box  the  child's  ears  because  he  upset  a 
glass  of  water  over  her  drawing,  and  why  she  should  call  him  many 
opprobrious  names  in  the  English  and  French  language;  and  the 
preference  accorded  to  little  Frank  was  certainly  no  reason  why 
Blanche  should  give  herself  imperial  airs  of  command  towards  the 
boy's  governess,  and  send  that  young  lady  upon  messages  through  the 
house  to  bring  her  book  or  to  fetch  her  pocket-handkerchief.  When 
a  domestic  performed  an  errand  for  honest  Laura,  she  was  always 
thankful  and  pleased ;  whereas,  she  could  not  but  perceive  that  the 
little  Muse  had  not  the  slightest  scruple  in  giving  her  commands  to 


PENDENNIS.  231 

all  the  world  round  about  her,  and  in  disturbing  anybody's  ease  or 
comfort,  in  order  to  administer  to  her  own.  It  was  Laura's  first 
experience  in  friendship ;  and  it  pained  the  kind  creature's  heart  to 
be  obliged  to  give  up  as  delusions,  one  by  one,  those  charms  and 
brilliant  qualities  in  which  her  fancy  had  dressed  her  new  friend,  and 
to  find  that  the  fascinating  little  fairy  was  but  a  mortal,  and  not  a  very 
amiable  mortal  after  all.  What  generous  person  is  there  that  has  not 
been  so  deceived  in  his  time  ? — what  person,  perhaps,  that  has  not  so 
disappointed  others  in  his  turn  ? 

After  the  scene  with  little  Frank,  in  which  that  refractory  son  and 
heir  of  the  house  of  Clavering  had  received  the  compliments  in  French 
and  English,  and  the  accompanying  box  on  the  ear  from  his  sister. 
Miss  Laura,  who  had  plenty  of  humour,  could  not  help  calling  to  mind 
some  very  touching  and  tender  verses  which  the  Muse  had  read  to  her 
out  of  "  Mes  Larmes,"  and  which  began,  "  My  pretty  baby  brother,  may 
angels  guard  thy  rest,"  in  which  the  Muse,  after  complimenting  the 
baby  upon  the  station  in  life  which  it  was  about  to  occupy,  and  con- 
trasting it  with  her  own  lonely  condition,  vowed  nevertheless  that  the 
angel  boy  would  never  enjoy  such  affection  as  hers  was,  or  find  in  the 
false  world  before  him  anything  so  constant  and  tender  as  a  sister's 
heart.  "  It  may  be,"  the  forlorn  one  said,  "  it  may  be,  you  will  slight 
it,  my  pretty  baby  sweet.  You  will  spurn  me  from  your  bosom,  I'll 
cling  around  your  feet !  O  let  me,  let  me,  love  you !  the  world  will 
prove  to  you  As  false  as  'tis  to  others,  but  /  am  ever  true."  And 
behold  the  Muse  was  boxing  the  darling  brother's  ears  instead  of 
kneeling  at  his  feet,  and  giving  Miss  Laura  her  first  lesson  in  the 
Cynical  philosophy — not  quite  her  first,  however, — something  like  this 
selfishness  and  waywardness,  something  like  this  contrast  between 
practice  and  poetry,  between  grand  versified  aspirations  and  every- 
day life,  she  had  witnessed  at  home  in  the  person  of  our  young  friend 
Mr.  Pen. 

But  then  Pen  was  different.  Pen  was  a  man.  It  seemed  natural, 
somehow,  that  he  should  be  self-willed  and  should  have  his  own  way. 
And  under  his  waywardness  and  selfishness,  indeed,  there  was  a  kind 
and  generous  heart.  O  it  was  hard  that  such  a  diamond  should  be 
changed  away  against  such  a  false  stone  as  this.  In  a  word,  Laura 
began  to  be  tired  of  her  admired  Blanche.  She  had  assayed  her  and 
found  her  not  true ;  and  her  former  admiration  and  delight,  which  she 
had  expressed  with  her  accustomed  generous  artlessness,  gave  way  to 
a  feeling,  which  we  shall  not  call  contempt,  but  which  was  very  near 
it;  and  which  caused  Laura  to  adopt  towards  Miss  Amory  a  grave 
and  tranquil  tone  of  superiority,  which  was  at  first  by  no  means  to  the 
Muse's  liking.  Nobody  likes  to  be  found  out,  or,  having  held  a  high 
place,  to  submit  to  step  down. 


232  PENDENXIS. 

The  consciousness  that  this  event  was  impending  did  not  serve  to 
increase  Miss  Blanche's  good  humour,  and  as  it  made  her  peevish 
and  dissatisfied  with  herself,  it  probably  rendered  her  even  less  agree- 
able to  the  persons  round  about  her.  So  there  arose,  one  fatal  day,  a 
battle-royal  between  dearest  Blanche  and  dearest  Laura,  in  which  the 
friendship  between  them  was  all  but  slain  outright.  Dearest  Blanche 
had  been  unusually  capricious  and  wicked  on  this  day.  She  had  been 
insolent  to  her  mother ;  savage  with  little  Frank ;  odiously  impertinent 
in  her  behaviour  to  the  boy's  governess;  and  intolerably  cruel  to  Pin- 
cott,  her  attendant.  Not  venturing  to  attack  her  friend  (for  the  little 
tyrant  was  of  a  timid  feline  nature,  and  only  used  her  claws  upon  those 
who  were  weaker  than  herself),  she  maltreated  all  these,  and  especially 
poor  Pincott,  who  was  menial,  confidante,  companion  (slave  always), 
according  to  the  caprice  of  her  young  mistress. 

This  girl,  who  had  been  sitting  in  the  room  with  the  young  ladies, 
being  driven  thence  in  tears,  occasioned  by  the  cruelty  of  her  mistress, 
and  raked  with  a  parting  sarcasm  as  she  went  sobbing  from  the  door, 
Laura  fairly  broke  out  into  a  loud  and  indignant  invective — wondered 
how  one  so  young  could  forget  the  deference  owing  to  her  elders  as 
well  as  to  her  inferiors  in  station;  and  professing  so  much  sensibility 
of  her  own,  could  torture  the  feelings  of  others  so  wantonly.  Laura 
told  her  friend  that  her  conduct  was  absolutely  wicked,  and  that  she 
ought  to  ask  pardon  of  Heaven  on  her  knees  for  it.  And  having 
delivered  herself  of  a  hot  and  voluble  speech  whereof  the  deliver)' 
astonished  the  speaker  as  much  almost  as  her  auditor,  she  ran  to  her 
bonnet  and  shawl,  and  went  home  across  the  park  in  a  great  flurrj' 
and  perturbation,  and  to  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Pendennis,  who  had  not 
expected  her  until  night. 

Alone  with  Helen,  Laura  gave  an  account  of  the  scene,  and  gave 
up  her  friend  henceforth.  "O  Mamma,"  she  said,  "you  were  right; 
Blanche,  who  seems  so  soft  and  so  kind,  is,  as  you  have  said,  selfish 
and  cruel.  She  who  is  always  speaking  of  her  affections  can  have  no 
heart.  No  honest  girl  would  aftlict  a  mother  so,  or  torture  a  depen- 
dant ;  and — and  I  give  her  up  from  this  day,  and  I  will  have  no  other 
friend  but  you." 

On  this  the  two  ladies  went  through  the  osculaton.-  ceremony 
which  they  were  in  the  habit  of  performing,  and  Mrs.  Pendennis  got 
a  great  secret  comfort  from  the  little  quarrel — for  Laura's  confession 
seemed  to  say,  "  That  girl  can  never  be  a  wife  for  Pen,  for  she  is 
light-minded  and  heartless,  and  quite  unworthy  of  our  noble  hero. 
He  will  be  sure  to  find  out  her  unworthiness  for  his  own  part,  and 
then  he  will  be  saved  from  this  flighty  creature,  and  awake  out  of 
his  delusion. 

But   Miss  Laura  did  not  tell  Mrs.  Pendennis,  perhaps  did    not 


PENDENNIS.  233 

acknowledge  to  herself,  what  had  been  the  real  cause  of  the  day's 
quarrel.  Being  in  a  very  wicked  mood,  and  bent  upon  mischief 
everywhere,  the  little  wicked  Muse  of  a  Blanche  had  very  soon  begun 
her  tricks.  Her  darling  Laura  had  come  to  pass  a  long  day;  and  as 
they  were  sitting  in  her  own  room  together,  had  chosen  to  bring  the 
conversation  round  to  the  subject  of  Mr.  Pen. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  is  sadly  fickle,"  Miss  Blanche  observed ;  "  Mrs. 
Pybus,  and  many  more  Clavering  people,  have  told  us  all  about 
the  actress." 

"  I  was  quite  a  child  when  it  happened,  and  I  don't  know  anything 
about  it,"  Laura  answered,  blushing  very  much. 

"  He  used  her  very  ill,"  Blanche  said,  wagging  her  little  head.  "  He 
was  false  to  her." 

"  I  am  sure  he  was  not,"  Laura  cried  out ;  "  he  acted  most  gene- 
rously by  her:  he  wanted  to  give  up  everything  to  marry  her.  It 
was  she  that  was  false  to  him.  He  nearly  broke  his  heart  about  it: 
he " 

"  I  thought  you  didn't  know  anything  about  the  story,  dearest," 
interposed  Miss  Blanche. 

"  Mamma  has  said  so,"  said  Laura. 

"  Well,  he  is  very  clever,''  continued  the  other  little  dear.  "  What 
a  sweet  poet  he  is !     Have  you  ever  read  his  poems  ?" 

"  Only  the  '  Fisherman  and  the  Diver,'  which  he  translated  for  us, 
and  his  Prize  Poem,  which  didn't  get  the  prize ;  and,  indeed,  I  thought 
it  very  pompous  and  prosy,"  Laura  said,  laughing. 

"Has  he  never  written  you  any  poems,  then,  love  ?"  asked  Miss 
Amory. 

"  No,  my  dear,"  said  Miss  Bell. 

Blanche  ran  up  to  her  friend,  kissed  her  fondly,  called  her  my 
dearest  Laura  at  least  three  times,  looked  her  archly  in  the  face, 
nodded  her  head,  and  said,  "  Promise  to  tell  no-o-body,  and  I  will 
show  you  something." 

And  tripping  across  the  room  daintily  to  a  httle  mother-of-pearl 
inlaid  desk,  she  opened  it  with  a  silver  key,  and  took  out  two  or  three 
papers  crumpled  and  rather  stained  with  green,  which  she  submitted 
to  her  friend.  Laura  took  them  and  read  them.  They  were  love- 
verses  sure  enough — something  about  Undine— about  a  Naiad — about 
a  river.  She  looked  at  them  for  a  long  time ;  but  in  truth  the  hnes 
were  not  very  distinct  before  her  eyes. 

"And  you  have  answered  them,  Blanche?"  she  asked,  putting 
them  back. 

"  O  no !  not  for  worlds,  dearest,"  the  other  said :  and  when  her 
dearest  Laura  had  quite  done  with  the  verses,  she  tripped  back,  and 
popped  them  again  into  the  pretty  desk. 


234  PENDENNIS. 

Then  she  went  to  her  piano,  and  sang  two  or  three  songs  of 
Rossini,  whose  flourishes  of  music  her  flexible  little  voice  could 
execute  to  perfection,  and  Laura  sate  by,  vaguely  listening,  as  she 
performed  these  pieces.  What  was  Miss  Bell  thinking  about  the 
while?  She  hardly  knew;  but  sate  there  silent  as  the  songs  rolled 
by.  After  this  concert  the  young  ladies  were  summoned  to  the  room 
where  luncheon  was  served ;  and  whither  they  of  course  went  with 
their  arms  round  each  other's  waists. 

And  it  could  not  have  been  jealousy  or  anger  on  Laura's  part  which 
had  made  her  silent :  for,  after  they  had  tripped  along  the  corridor 
and  descended  the  steps,  and  were  about  to  open  the  door  which  leads 
into  the  hall,  Laura  paused,  and  looking  her  friend  kindly  and  frankly 
in  the  face,  kissed  her  with  a  sisterly  warmth. 

Something  occurred  after  this — Master  Frank's  manner  of  eating, 
probably,  or  mamma's  blunders,  or  Sir  Francis  smelling  of  cigars — ■ 
which  vexed  Miss  Blanche,  and  she  gave  way  to  that  series  of  naughti- 
nesses whereof  we  have  spoken,  and  which  ended  in  the  above  little 
quarrel. 


PENDENNIS.  235 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
A  HOUSE  FULL  OF  VISITORS. 

THE  difference  between  the  girls  did  not  last  long.  Laura  wais 
always  too  eager  to  forgive  and  be  forgiven,  and  as  for  Miss 
Blanche,  her  hostilities,  never  very  long  or  durable,  had  not  been 
provoked  by  the  above  scene.  Nobody  cares  about  being  accused  of 
wickedness.  No  vanity  is  hurt  by  that  sort  of  charge  :  Blanche  was 
rather  pleased  than  provoked  by  her  friend's  indignation,  which  never 
would  have  been  raised  but  for  a  cause  which  both  knew,  though 
neither  spoke  of. 

And  so  Laura,  with  a  sigh,  was  ©bliged  to  confess  that  the  romantic 
part  of  her  first  friendship  was  at  an  end,  and  that  the  object  of  it  was 
only  worthy  of  a  very  ordinary  sort  of  regard. 

As  for  Blanche,  she  instantly  composed  a  copy  of  touching  verses, 
setting  forth  her  desertion  and  disenchantment.  It  was  only  the  old 
story  she  wrote,  of  love  meeting  with  coldness,  and  fidelity  returned 
by  neglect ;  and  some  new  neighbours  arriving  from  London  about 
this  time,  in  whose  family  there  were  daughters,  Miss  Amory  had  the 
advantage  of  selecting  an  eternal  friend  from  one  of  these  young  ladies, 
and  imparting  her  sorrows  and  disappointments  to  this  new  sister. 
The  tall  footmen  came  but  seldom  now  with  notes  to  the  sweet  Laura ; 
the  pony  carriage  was  but  rarely  despatched  to  Fairoaks  to  be  at  the 
orders  of  the  ladies  there.  Blanche  adopted  a  sweet  look  of  suffering 
martyrdom  when  Laura  came  to  see  her.  The  other  laughed  at  her 
friend's  sentimental  mood,  and  treated  it  with  a  good  humour  that  was 
by  no  means  respectful. 

But  if  Miss  Blanche  found  new  female  friends  to  console  her,  the 
faithful  historian  is  also  bound  to  say,  that  she  discovered  some 
acquaintances  of  the  other  sex  who  seemed  to  give  her  consolation 
too.  If  ever  this  artless  young  creature  met  a  young  man,  and  had 
ten  minutes'  conversation  with  him  in  a  garden  walk,  in  a  drawing- 
room  window,  or  in  the  intervals  of  a  waltz,  she  confided  in  him,  so  to 
speak — made  play  with  her  beautiful  eyes — spoke  in  a  tone  of  tender 
interest,  and  simple  and  touching  appeal,  and  left  him,  to  perform  the 
same  pretty  little  drama  in  behalf  of  his  successor. 

When  the  Claverings  first  came  down  to  the  Park,  there  were  very 


236  PENDENNIS. 

few  audiences  before  whom  Miss  Blanche  could  perform :  hence  Pen 
had  all  the  benefits  of  her  glances,  and  confidences,  and  the  drawing- 
room  window,  or  the  garden  walk  all  to  himself.  In  the  town  of 
Clavering,  it  has  been  said,  there  were  actually  no  young  men :  in  the 
near  surrounding  country',  only  a  curate  or  two,  or  a  rustic  young 
squire,  with  large  feet  and  ill-made  clothes.  To  the  dragoons  quartered 
at  Chatteris  the  Baronet  made  no  overtures :  it  was  unluckily  his  own 
regiment :  he  had  left  it  on  bad  terms  with  some  officers  of  the  corps 
— an  ugly  business  about  a  horse  bargain — a  disputed  play  account  at 
blind-hookey — a  white  feather — who  need  ask  ? — it  is  not  our  business 
to  inquire  too  closely  into  the  bygones  of  our  characters,  except  in  so 
far  as  their  previous  history  appertains  to  the  development  of  this 
present  story. 

The  autumn,  and  the  end  of  the  parliamentary  session,  and  the 
London  season,  brought  one  or  two  county  families  down  to  their 
houses,  and  filled  tolerably  the  neighbouring  little  watering-place  of 
Baymouth,  and  opened  our  friend  Mr.  Bingley's  Theatre  Royal  at 
Chatteris,  and  collected  the  usual  company  at  the  assizes  and  race- 
balls  there.  Up  to  this  time,  the  old  county  families  had  been  rather 
shy  of  our  friends  of  Clavering  Park.  The  Fogeys  of  Drummington ; 
the  Squares  of  Dozley  Park;  the  Welbores  of  The  Barrow,  &c.  All 
sorts  of  stories  were  current  among  these  folks  regarding  the  family  at 
Clavering ; — indeed,  nobody  ought  to  say  that  people  in  the  country 
have  no  imagination,  who  hears  them  talk  about  new  neighbours. 
About  Sir  Francis  and  his  Lady,  and  her  birth  and  parentage,  about 
Miss  Amor)',  about  Captain  Strong,  there  had  been  endless  histories 
which  need  not  be  recapitulated:  and  the  family  of  the  Park  had 
been  three  months  in  the  county  before  the  great  people  around  began 
to  call. 

But  at  the  end  of  the  season,  the  Earl  of  Trehawk,  Lord 
Lieutenant  of  the  county,  coming  to  Eyrie  Castle,  and  the  Countess 
Dowager  of  Rockminster,  whose  son  was  also  a  magnate  of  the  land, 
to  occupy  a  mansion  on  the  Marine  Parade  at  Baymouth — these  great 
folks  came  publicly,  immediately,  and  in  state,  to  call  upon  the  family 
of  Clavering  Park ;  and  the  carriages  of  the  county  families  speedily 
followed  in  the  track,  which  had  been  left  in  the  avenue  by  their 
lordly  wheels. 

It  was  then  that  IMirobolant  began  to  have  an  opportunity  of 
exercising  that  skill  which  he  possessed,  and  of  forgetting,  in  the 
occupations  of  his  art,  the  pangs  of  love.  It  was  then  that  the  large 
footmen  were  too  much  employed  at  Clavering  Park  to  be  able  to 
bring  messages,  or  dally  over  the  cup  of  small  beer  with  the  poor  little 
maids  at  Fairoaks.  It  was  then  that  Blanche  found  other  dear  friends 
than  Laura,  and  other  places  to  walk  in  besides  the  river  side,  where 


PENDENNIS.  237 

Pen  was  fishing.  He  came  day  after  day,  and  whipped  the  stream, 
but  the  "  fish,  fish ! "  wouldn't  do  their  duty,  nor  the  Peri  appear. 
And  here,  though  in  strict  confidence,  and  with  a  request  that  the 
matter  go  no  further,  we  may  as  well  allude  to  a  delicate  business,  of 
which  previous  hint  has  been  given.  Mention  has  been  made,  in  a 
former  page,  of  a  certain  hollow  tree,  at  which  Pen  used  to  take  his 
station  when  engaged  in  his  passion  for  Miss  Fotheringay,  and  the 
cavity  of  which  he  afterwards  used  for  other  purposes  than  to  insert 
his  baits  and  fishing-cans  in.  The  truth  is,  he  converted  this  tree  into 
a  post-office.  Under  a  piece  of  moss  and  a  stone,  he  used  to  put 
little  poems,  or  letters  equally  poetical,  which  were  addressed  to  a 
certain  Undine,  or  Naiad  who  frequented  the  stream,  and  which,  once 
or  twice,  were  replaced  by  a  receipt  in  the  shape  of  a  flower,  or  by  a 
modest  little  word  or  two  of  acknowledgment,  written  in  a  delicate 
hand,  in  French  or  English,  and  on  pink  scented  paper.  Certainly, 
Miss  Amory  used  to  walk  by  this  stream,  as  we  have  seen ;  and  it  is 
a  fact  that  she  used  pink  scented  pape-r  for  her  correspondence.  But 
after  the  great  folks  had  invaded  Clavering  Park,  and  the  family  coach 
passed  out  of  the  lodge-gates,  evening  after  evening,  on  their  way  to 
the  other  great  country  houses,  nobody  came  to  fetch  Pen's  letters  at 
the  post-office ;  the  white  paper  was  not  exchanged  for  the  pink,  but 
lay  undisturbed  under  its  stone  and  its  moss,  whilst  the  tree  was 
reflected  into  the  stream,  and  the  Brawl  went  rolling  by.  There  was 
not  much  in  the  letters  certainly  :  in  the  pink  notes  scarcely  anything 
— merely  a  little  word  or  two,  half  jocular,  half  sympathetic,  such  as 
might  be  written  by  any  young  lady.  But  oh,  you  silly  Pendennis,  if 
you  wanted  this  one,  why  did  you  not  speak  ?  Perhaps  neither  party 
was  in  earnest.  You  were  only  playing  at  being  in  love,  and  the 
sportive  little  Undine  was  humouring  you  at  the  same  play. 

Nevertheless  if  a  man  is  baulked  at  this  game,  he  not  unfrequently 
loses  his  temper ;  and  when  nobody  came  any  more  for  Pen's  poems, 
he  began  to  look  upon  those  compositions  in  a  very  serious  light.  He 
felt  almost  tragical  and  romantic  again,  as  in  his  first  afi"air  of  the 
heart : — at  any  rate  he  was  bent  upon  having  an  explanation.  One 
day  he  went  to  the  Hall,  and  there  was  a  room-full  of  visitors :  on 
another.  Miss  Amory  was  not  to  be  seen ;  she  was  going  to  a  ball  that 
night,  and  was  lying  down  to  take  a  little  sleep.  Pen  cursed  balls,  and 
the  narrowness  of  his  means,  and  the  humility  of  his  position  in  the 
county  that  caused  him  to  be  passed  over  by  the  givers  of  these  enter- 
tainments. On  a  third  occasion.  Miss  Amory  was  in  the  garden,  and 
he  ran  thither ;  she  was  walking  there  in  state  with  no  less  personages 
than  the  Bishop  and  Bishopess  of  Chatteris  and  the  episcopal  family, 
who  scowled  at  him,  and  drew  up  in  great  dignity  when  he  was  pre- 
sented  to   them,  and  they  heard  his  name.      The  Right  Reverend 


238  PENDENNJS. 

Prelate  had  beard  it  before,  and  also  of  the  httle  transaction  in  the 
Dean's  garden. 

"  The  Bishop  says  you're  a  sad  young  man,"  good-natured  Lady 
Clavering  whispered  to  him.  "What  have  you  been  a  doing  of? 
Nothink,  I  hope,  to  vex  such  a  dear  Mar  as  yours  ?  How  is  your 
dear  Mar  ?  Why  don't  she  come  and  see  me  ?  We  a'n't  seen  her 
this  ever  such  a  time.  We're  a  goin'  about  a  gaddin',  so  that'  we  don't 
see  no  neighbours  now.  Give  my  love  to  her  and  Laurar,  and  come 
all  to  dinner  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Pendennis  was  too  unwell  to  come  out,  but  Laura  and  Pen 
came,  and  there  was  a  great  party,  and  Pen  only  got  an  opportunhy 
of  a  hurried  word  with  Miss  Amory.  "  You  never  come  to  the  river 
now,"  he  said. 

"  I  can't,"  said  Blanche,  "  the  house  is  full  of  people." 

"  Undine  has  left  the  stream,"  Mr.  Pen  went  on,  choosing  to  be 
poetical. 

"  She  never  ought  to  have  gone  there,"  Miss  Amorj*  answered. 
"  She  won't  go  again.  It  was  very  foolish,  ver>'  wrong :  it  was  only 
play.  Besides,  you  have  other  consolations  at  home,"  she  added, 
looking  him  full  in  the  face  an  instant,  and  dropping  her  eyes. 

If  he  wanted  her,  why  did  he  not  speak  then  ?  She  might  have 
said  "  Yes "  even  then.  But  as  she  spoke  of  other  consolations  at 
home,  he  thought  of  Laura,  so  affectionate  and  so  pure,  and  of  his 
mother  at  home,  who  had  bent  her  fond  heart  upon  uniting  him  with 
her  adopted  daughter.  "  Blanche ! "  he  began,  in  a  vexed  tone, — 
"]\Iiss  Amory!" 

"  Laura  is  looking  at  us,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  the  young  lady  said.  "  I 
must  go  back  to  the  company,"  and  she  ran  off,  leaving  Mr.  Pendennis 
to  bite  his  nails  in  perplexity,  and  to  look  out  into  the  moonhght  in 
the  garden. 

Laura  indeed  was  looking  at  Pen.  She  was  talking  with,  or 
appearing  to  listen  to  the  talk  of,  Mr.  Pynsent,  Lord  Rockminsters 
son,  and  grandson  of  the  Dowager  Lady,  who  was  seated  in  state  in 
the  place  of  honour,  gravely  receiving  Lady  Clavering^s  bad  grammar, 
and  patronising  the  vacuous  Sir  Francis,  whose  interest  in  the  county 
she  was  desirous  to  secure.  Pynsent  and  Pen  had  been  at  Oxbridge 
together,  where  the  latter,  during  his  heyday  of  good  fortune  and 
fashion,  had  been  the  superior  of  the  young  patrician,  and  perhaps 
rather  supercilious  towards  him.  They  had  met  for  the  first  time, 
since  they  had  parted  at  the  University,  at  the  table  to-day,  and  given 
each  other  that  exceedingly  impertinent  and  amusing  demi-nod  of 
recognition  which  is  practised  in  England  only,  and  only  to  perfection 
by  University  men, — and  which  seems  to  say,  "  Confound  you — what 
do  you  do  here  ? " 


PENDENNIS.  iy) 

"  I  knew  that  man  at  Oxbridge,"  Mr.  Pynsent  said  to  Miss  Bell— 
"  a  Mr.  Pendennis,  I  think." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Bell— 

"  He  seems  rather  sweet  upon  Miss  Amory,"  the  gentleman  went 
on.  Laura  looked  at  them,  and  perhaps  thought  so  too,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  A  man  of  large  property  in  the  county,  ain't  he  ?  He  used  to 
talk  about  representing  it.  He  used  to  speak  at  the  Union.  Where- 
abouts do  his  estates  lie  1 " 

Laura  smiled.  "  His  estates  lie  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  near 
the  lodge  gate.     He  is  my  cousin,  and  I  live  there." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Pynsent,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Why,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  at  Fairoaks,"  answered 
Miss  Bell. 

"Many  pheasants  there?  Cover  looks  rather  good,"  said  the 
simple  gentleman. 

Laura  smiled  again.  "  We  have  nine  hens  and  a  cock,  a  pig,  and 
an  old  pointer." 

"  Pendennis  don't  preserve  then  ? "  continued  Mr,  Pynsent. 

"  You  should  come  and  see  him,"  the  girl  said,  laughing,  and 
greatly  amused  at  the  notion  that  her  Pen  was  a  great  county  gentle- 
map,  and  perhaps  had  given  himself  out  to  be  such. 

"  Indeed,  I  quite  long  to  renew  our  acquaintance,"  Mr.  Pynsent 
said,  gallantly,  and  with  a  look  which  fairly  said,  "  It  is  you  that  I 
would  like  to  come  and  see  " — to  which  look  and  speech  Miss  Laura 
vouchsafed  a  smile,  and  made  a  little  bow. 

Here  Blanche  came  stepping  up  with  her  most  fascinating  smile 
and  ogle,  and  begged  dear  Laura  to  come  and  take  the  second  in  a 
song.  Laura  was  ready  to  do  anything  good-natured,  and  went  to  the 
piano ;  by  which  Mr.  Pynsent  listened  as  long  as  the  duet  lasted,  and 
until  Miss  Amory  began  for  herself,  when  he  strode  away. 

"  What  a  nice,  frank,  amiable,  well-bred  girl  that  is,  Wagg,"  said 
Mr.  Pynsent  to  a  gentleman  who  had  come  over  with  him  from  Bay- 
mouth — "  the  tall  one  I  mean,  with  the  ringlets  and  the  red  lips — 
monstrous  red,  ain't  they  ? " 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  girl  of  the  house  ? "  asked  Mr.  Wagg. 

"  I  think  she's  a  lean,  scraggy  humbug,"  said  Mr.  Pynsent,  with 
great  candour.  "  She  drags  her  shoulders  out  of  her  dress :  she  never 
lets  her  eyes  alone :  and  she  goes  simpering  and  ogling  about  like  a 
French  waiting-maid." 

"  Pynsent,  be  civil,"  cried  the  other;  "somebody  can  hear." 

"  Oh,  it's  Pendennis  of  Boniface,"  Mr.  Pynsent  said.  "  Fine 
evening,  Mr.  Pendennis;  we  were  just  talking  of  your  charming 
cousin." 


240  PENDENNIS. 

"Any  relation  to  my  old  friend,  Major  Pendennis  ? "  asked 
Mr.  Wagg. 

"  His  nephew.  Had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  at  Gaunt  House," 
Mr.  Pen  said  with  his  very  best  air — the  acquaintance  between  the 
gentlemen  was  made  in  an  instant. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day,  the  two  gentlemen  who  were 
staying  at  Clavering  Park  were  found  by  Mr.  Pen  on  his  return  from 
a  fishing  excursion,  in  which  he  had  no  sport,  seated  in  his  mother's 
drawing-room  in  comfortable  conversation  with  the  widow  and  her 
ward.  Mr.  Pynsent,  tall  and  gaunt,  with  large  red  whiskers,  and  an 
imposing  tuft  to  his  chin,  was  striding  over  a  chair  in  the  intimate 
neighbourhood  of  Miss  Laura.  She  was  amused  by  his  talk,  which 
was  simple,  straightforward,  rather  humorous,  and  keen,  and  inter- 
spersed with  homely  expressions  of  a  style  which  is  sometimes  called 
slang.  It  was  the  first  specimen  of  a  young  London  dandy  that 
Laura  had  seen  or  heard ;  for  she  had  been  but  a  chit  at  the  time  of 
Mr.  Foker's  introduction  at  Fairoaks,  nor  indeed  was  that  ingenuous 
gentleman  much  more  than  a  boy,  and  his  refinement  was  only  that  of 
a  school  and  college. 

Mr.  Wagg,  as  he  entered  the  Fairoaks  premises  with  his  com- 
panion, eyed  and  noted  everj-thing.  "  Old  gardener,"  he  said,  seeing 
Mr.  John  at  the  lodge — "  old  red  livery  waistcoat — clothes  hanging 
out  to  dry  on  the  gooseberry- -bushes —blue  aprons,  white  ducks — gad, 
they  must  be  young  Pendennis's  white  ducks — nobody  else  wears  'em 
in  the  family.  Rather  a  shy  place  for  a  sucking  county  member, 
ay,  Pynsent  ? " 

"  Snug  little  crib,"  said  Mr.  Pj-nsent ;  "  pretty  cozy  little  lawn." 

"Mr.  Pendennis  at  home,  old  gentleman?"  Mr.  Wagg  said  to 
the  old  domestic.  John  answered,  "  No,  Master  Pendennis  was 
agone  out." 

"Are  the  ladies  at  home  .-'"  asked  the  younger  visitor.  Tvlr.  John 
answered,  "  Yes,  they  be ; "  and  as  the  pair  walked  over  the  trim  gravel, 
and  by  the  neat  shrubberies,  up  the  steps  to  the  hall-door,  which  old 
John  opened,  Mr.  Wagg  noted  ever)-thing  that  he  saw ;  the  barometer 
and  the  letter-bag,  the  umbrellas  and  the  ladies'  clogs.  Pen's  hats  and 
tartan  wrapper,  and  old  John  opening  the  drawing-room  door,  to  intro- 
duce the  new  comers.  Such  minutiae  attracted  Wagg  instinctively ;  he 
seized  them  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Old  fellow  does  all  the  work,"  he  whispered  to  Pynsent.  "  Caleb 
Balderstone.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  he's  the  housemaid."  The  next 
minute  the  pair  were  in  the  presence  of  the  Fairoaks  ladies ;  in  whom 
Pynsent  could  not  help  recognising  two  perfectly  well-bred  ladies,  and 
to  whom  Mr.  Wagg  made  his  obeisance,  with  florid  bows  and  extra 


PENDENNIS.  '241 

courtesy,  accompanied  with  an  occasional  knowing  leer  at  his  com- 
panion. Mr.  Pynsent  did  not  choose  to  acknowledge  these  signals, 
except  by  extreme  haughtiness  towards  Mr.  Wagg,  and  particular  de- 
ference to  the  ladies.  If  there  was  one  thing  laughable  in  Mr.  Wagg's 
eyes,  it  was  poverty.  He  had  the  soul  of  a  butler  who  had  been  brought 
from  his  pantry  to  make  fun  in  the  drawing-room.  His  jokes  were 
plenty,  and  his  good-nature  thoroughly  genuine,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  understand  that  a  gentleman  could  wear  an  old  coat,  or  that  a  lady 
could  be  respectable  unless  she  had  her  carriage,  or  employed  a 
French  milliner. 

"  Charming  place,  ma'am,"  said  he,  bowing  to  the  widow ;  "  noble 
prospect — delightful  to  us  cockneys,  who  seldom  see  anything  but 
Pall  Mall."  The  widow  said,  simply,  she  had  never  been  in  London 
but  once  in  her  life — before  her  son  was  born. 

"  Fine  village,  ma'am,  fine  village,"  said  Mr.  Wagg,  "  and  increas- 
ing every  day.  It'll  be  quite  a  large  town  soon.  It's  not  a  bad  place 
to  live  in  for  those  who  can't  get  the  country,  and  will  repay  a  visit 
when  you  honour  it." 

"  My  brother.  Major  Pendennis,  has  often  mentioned  your  name  to 
us,"  the  widow  said,  "  and  we  have  been — amused  by  some  of  your 
droll  books,  sir,"  Helen  continued,  who  never  could  be  brought  to  like 
Mr.  Wagg's  books,  and  detested  their  tone  most  thoroughly. 

"  He  is  my  very  good  friend,"  Mr.  Wagg  said,  with  a  low  bow, 
"  and  one  of  the  best  known  men  about  town,  and  where  known, 
ma'am,  appreciated — I  assure  you  appreciated.  He  is  with  our 
friend  Steyne,  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Steyne  has  a  touch  of  the  gout, 
and  so,  between  ourselves,  has  your  brother.  I  am  going  to  Still- 
brook  for  the  pheasant-shooting,  and  afterwards  to  Bareacres,  where 
Pendennis  and  I  shall  probably  meet ;  "  and  he  poured  out  a  flood  of 
fashionable  talk,  introducing  the  names  of  a  score  of  peers  and  rattling 
on  with  breathless  spirits,  whilst  the  simple  widow  listened  in  silent 
wonder.  What  a  man,  she  thought;  are  all  the  men  of  fashion  in 
London  like  this  ?     I  am  sure  Pen  will  never  be  like  him. 

Mr.  Pynsent  was  in  the  meanwhile  engaged  with  Miss  Laura.  He 
named  some  of  the  houses  in  the  neighbourhood  whither  he  was  going, 
and  hoped  very  much  that  he  should  see  Miss  Bell  at  some  of  them. 
He  hoped  that  her  aunt  would  give  her  a  season  in  London.  He  said, 
that  in  the  next  parliament  it  was  probable  he  should  canvass  the 
county,  and  he  hoped  to  get  Pendennis's  interest  here.  He  spoke  of 
Pen's  triumph  as  an  orator  at  Oxbridge,  and  asked  was  he  coming  into 
parliament  too  ?  He  talked  on  very  pleasantly,  and  greatly  to  Laura's 
satisfaction,  until  Pen  himself  appeared,  and,  as  has  been  said,  found 
these  gentlemen. 

Pen  behaved  very  courteously  to  the  pair,  now  that  they  had  found 

16 


•242  PENDENNTS. 

their  way  into  his  quarters  ;  and  though  he  recollected  with  some 
twinges  a  conversation  at  Oxbridge,  when  Pynsent  was  present,  and  in 
which,  after  a  great  debate  at  the  Union,  and  in  the  midst  of  consider- 
able excitement,  produced  by  a  supper  and  champagne-cup, —  he  had 
announced  his  intention  of  coming  in  for  his  native  county,  and  had 
absolutely  returned  thanks  in  a  fine  speech  as  the  future  member ;  yet 
Mr.  Pynsent's  manner  was  so  frank  and  cordial,  that  Pen  hoped 
Pynsent  might  have  forgotten  his  little  fanfaronnade,  and  any  other 
braggadocio  speeches  or  actions  which  he  might  have  made.  He 
suited  himself  to  the  tone  of  the  visitors  then,  and  talked  about 
Plinlimmon  and  Magnus  Charters,  and  the  old  set  at  Oxbridge,  with 
careless  familiarity  and  high-bred  ease,  as  if  he  lived  with  marquises 
every  day,  and  a  duke  was  no  more  to  him  than  a  village  curate. 

But  at  this  juncture,  and  it  being  then  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
Betsy,  the  maid,  who  did  not  know  of  the  advent  of  strangers,  walked 
into  the  room  without  any  preliminary  but  that  of  flinging  the  door 
wide  open  before  her,  and  bearing  in  her  arms  a  tray,  containing 
three  tea-cups,  a  tea-pot,  and  a  plate  of  thick  bread-and-butter.  All 
Pen's  splendour  and  magnificence  vanished  away  at  this — and  he 
faltered  and  became  quite  abashed.  "  What  will  they  think  of  us  ? " 
he  thought :  and,  indeed,  Wagg  thrust  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  thought 
the  tea  utterly  contemptible,  and  leered  and  winked  at  Pynsent  to  that 
effect. 

But  to  Mr.  Pynsent  the  transaction  appeared  perfectly  simple — 
there  was  no  reason  present  to  his  mind  why  people  should  not  drink 
tea  at  six  if  they  were  minded,  as  well  as  at  any  other  hour ;  and  he 
a.sked  of  Mr.  Wagg,  when  they  went  away,  "  What  the  devil  he  was 
grinning  and  winking  at,  and  what  amused  him  ? " 

"  Didn't  you  see  how  the  cub  was  ashamed  of  the  thick  bread-and- 
butter?  I  daresay  they're  going  to  have  treacle  if  they  are  good.  Ill 
take  an  opportunity  of  telling  old  Pendennis  when  we  get  back  to 
town,"  Mr.  Wagg  chuckled  out. 

"  Don't  see  the  fun,"  said  Mr.  Pynsent. 

"  Never  thought  you  did,"  growled  Wagg  between  his  teeth  ;  and 
they  walked  home  rather  sulkily. 

Wagg  told  the  stor>'  at  dinner  very  smartly,  with  wonderful  accuracy 
of  observation.  He  described  old  John,  the  clothes  that  were  drying, 
the  clogs  in  the  hall,  the  drawing-room,  and  its  furniture  and  pictures : 
"  Old  man  with  a  beak  and  bald  head— ^«  Pendennis  I  bet  two  to 
one ;  sticking-plaster  full-length  of  a  youth  in  a  cap  and  gown-;-the 
present  Marquis  of  Fairoaks,  of  course ;  the  widow  when  young  in  a 
miniature,  Mrs.  Mee ;  she  had  the  gown  on  when  we  came,  or  a  dress 
made  the  year  after,  and  the  tips  cut  off  the  fingers  of  her  gloves 
which  she  stitches  her  son's  collars  with ;  and  then  the  sarving  maid 


PENVEXNIS.  243 

came  in  with  their  teas ;  so  we  left  the  earl  and  the  countess  to  their 
bread-and-butter." 

Blanche,  near  whom  he  sate  as  he  told  this  story,  and  who  adored 
les  hoimnes  d'espn't,  burst  out  laughing,  and  called  him  such  an  odd, 
droll  creature.  But  Pynsent,  who  began  to  be  utterly  disgusted  with 
him,  broke  out  in  a  loud  voice,  and  said,  "  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Wagg, 
what  sort  of  ladies  you  are  accustomed  to  meet  in  your  own  family, 
but  by  gad,  as  far  as  a  first  acquaintance  can  show,  I  never  met  two 
better-bred  women  in  my  life,  and  I  hope,  ma'am,  you'll  call  upon 
'em,"  he  added,  addressing  Lady  Rockminster,  who  was  seated  at 
Sir  Francis  Clavering's  right  hand. 

Sir  Francis  turned  to  the  guest  on  his  left,  and  whispered,  "That's 
what  I  call  a  sticker  for  Wagg."  And  Lady  Clavering,  giving  the 
young  gentleman  a  delighted  tap  with  her  fan,  winked  her  black  eyes 
at  him,  and  said,  "  Mr.  Pynsent,  you're  a  good  feller." 

After  the  affair  with  Blanche,  a  difference  ever  so  slight,  a  tone 
of  melancholy  perhaps  a  little  bitter,  might  be  perceived  in  Laura's 
converse  with  her  cousin.  She  seemed  to  weigh  him,  and  find  him 
wanting  too ;  the  widow  saw  the  girl's  clear  and  honest  eyes  watching 
the  young  man  at  times,  and  a  look  of  almost  scorn  pass  over  her 
face,  as  he  lounged  in  the  room  with  the  women,  or  lazily  sauntered 
smoking  upon  the  lawn,  or  lolled  under  a  tree  there  over  a  book,  which 
he  was  too  listless  to  read. 

"What  has  happened  between  you?"  eager-sighted  Helen  asked  of 
the  girl.  "  Something  has  happened.  Has  that  wicked  little  Blanche 
been  making  mischief  ?     Tell  me,  Laura." 

"  Nothing  has  happened  at  all,"  Laura  said. 

"  Then  why  do  you  look  at  Pen  so  ? "  asked  his  mother  quickly. 

"  Look  at  him,  dear  mother  !"  said  the  girl.  "  We  two  women  are 
no  society  for  him :  we  don't  interest  him ;  we  are  not  clever  enough 
for  such  a  genius  as  Pen.  He  wastes  his  hfe  and  energies  away  among 
us,  tied  to  our  apron-strings.  He  interests  himself  in  nothing:  he 
scarcely  cares  to  go  beyond  the  garden-gate.  Even  Captain  Glanders 
and  Captain  Strong  pall  upon  him,"  she  added  with  a  bitter  laugh  ; 
"  and  they  are  men  you  know,  and  our  superiors.  He  will  never  be 
happy  while  he  is  here.  Why  is  he  not  facing  the  world,  and  without 
a  profession  ?  " 

"  We  have  got  enough,  with  great  economy,"  said  the  widow,  her 
heart  beginning  to  beat  violently.  "  Pen  has  spent  nothing  for 
months.  I'm  sure  he  is  very  good.  I  am  sure  he  might  be  very  happy 
with  us." 

"  Don't  agitate  yourself  so,  dear  mother,"  the  girl  answered.  "  I 
don't  like  to  see  you  so.  You  should  not  be  sad  because  Pen  is 
unhappy  here.     All  men  are  so.     They  must  work.     They  must  make 


244  PEXDEA'NIS. 

themselves  names  and  a  place  in  the  world.  Look,  the  two  captains 
have  fought  and  seen  battles :  that  Mr.  Pynsent,  who  came  here,  and 
who  will  be  very  rich,  is  in  a  public  ofifice;  he  works  very  hard,  he 
aspires  to  a  name  and  a  reputation.  He  says  Pen  was  one  of  the  best 
speakers  at  Oxbridge,  and  had  as  great  a  character  for  talent  as  any 
of  the  young  gentlemen  there.  Pen  himself  laughs  at  Mr.  Wagg's 
celebrity  (and  indeed  he  is  a  horrid  person),  and  says  he  is  a  dunce, 
and  that  anybody  could  write  his  books." 

"  I  am  sure  they  are  odious.'"  interposed  the  widow. 

"  Yet  he  has  a  reputation. — You  see  the  County  Chronicle  says, 
'  The  celebrated  Mr.  Wagg  has  been  sojourning  at  Baymouth — let  our 
fashionables  and  eccentrics  look  out  for  something  from  his  caustic 
pen.'  If  Pen  can  write  better  than  this  gentleman,  and  speak  better 
than  Mr.  Pynsent,  why  doesn"t  he  ?  Mamma,  he  can't  make  speeches 
to  us  ;  or  distinguish  himself  here.  He  ought  to  go  away,  indeed  he 
ought." 

"  Dear  Laura,"  said  Helen,  taking  the  girl's  hand.  "  Is  it  kind  of 
you  to  hurry  him  so  ?  I  have  been  waiting.  I  have  been  saving  up 
money  these  many  months — to — to  pay  back  your  advance  to  us." 

"  Hush,  mother  !"  Laura  cried,  embracing  her  friend  hastily.  "  It 
was  your  money,  not  mine.  Never  speak  about  that  again.  How 
much  money  have  you  saved  V 

Helen  said  there  were  more  than  two  hundred  pounds  at  the  bank, 
and  that  she  would  be  enabled  to  pay  off  all  Laura's  money  by  the  end 
of  the  next  year. 

"  Give  it  him — let  him  have  the  two  hundred  pounds.  Let  him  go 
to  London  and  be  a  lawyer :  be  something,  be  worthy  of  his  mother — 
and  of  mine,  dearest  mamma,"  said  the  good  girl;  upon  which,  and 
with  her  usual  tenderness  and  emotion,  the  fond  widow  declared  that 
Laura  was  a  blessing  to  her,  and  the  best  of  girls — and  I  hope  no  one 
in  this  instance  will  be  disposed  to  contradict  her. 

The  widow  and  her  daughter  had  more  than  one  conversation  on 
this  subject :  the  elder  gave  way  to  the  superior  reason  of  the  honest 
and  stronger  minded  girl ;  and,  indeed,  whenever  there  was  a  sacrifice 
to  be  made  on  her  part,  this  kind  lady  was  only  too  eager  to  make  it. 
But  she  took  her  own  way,  and  did  not  lose  sight  of  the  end  she  had 
in  view,  in  imparting  these  new  plans  to  Pen.  One  day  she  told  him 
of  these  projects,  and  who  it  was  that  had  formed  them ;  how  it  was 
Laura  who  insisted  upon  his  going  to  London  and  studying  ;  how  it 
was  Laura  who  would  not  hear  of  the — the  money  arrangements 
when  he  came  back  from  Oxbridge — being  settled  just  then :  how  it 
was  Laura  whom  he  had  to  thank,  if  indeed  he  thought  he  ought 
to  go. 

At  that  news  Pen's  countenance  blazed  up  with  pleasure,  and  he 


PENDENNIS.  245 

hugged  his  mother  to  his  heart  with  an  ardour  that  I  fear  disappointed 
the  fond  lady;  but  she  ralHed  when  he  said,  "  By  Heaven  !  she  is  a 
noble  girl,  and  may  God  Almighty  bless  her !  Oh  mother !  I  have 
been  wearying  myself  away  for  months  here,  longing  to  work,  and  not 
knowing  how.  I've  been  fretting  over  the  thoughts  of  my  shame,  and 
my  debts,  and  my  past  cursed  extravagance  and  follies.  I've  suffered 
infernally.  My  heart  has  been  half-broken — never  mind  about  that. 
If  I  can  get  a  chance  to  redeem  the  past,  and  to  do  my  duty  to 
myself  and  the  best  mother  in  the  world,  indeed,  indeed,  I  will.  I'll 
be  worthy  of  you  yet.  Heaven  bless  you  !  God  bless  Laura  !  Why 
isn't  she  here,  that  I  may  go  and  thank  her  ?"  Pen  went  on  with 
more  incoherent  phrases;  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  drank 
glasses  of  water,  jumped  about  his  mother  with  a  thousand  embraces 
— began  to  laugh — began  to  sing — was  happier  than  she  had  seen 
him  since  he  was  a  boy — since  he  had  tasted  of  the  fruit  of  that 
awful  Tree  of  Life  which,  from  the  beginning,  has  tempted  all  man- 
kind. 

Laura  was  not  at  home.  Laura  was  on  a  visit  to  the  stately  Lady 
Rockminster,  daughter  to  my  Lord  Bareacres,  sister  to  the  late  Lady 
Pontypool,  and  by  consequence  a  distant  kinswoman  of  Helen's,  as 
her  ladyship,  who  was  deeply  versed  in  genealogy,  was  the  first 
graciously  to  point  out  to  the  modest  country  lady.  Mr.  Pen  was 
greatly  delighted  at  the  relationship  being  acknowledged,  though 
perhaps  not  over  well  pleased  that  Lady  Rockminster  took  Miss  Bell 
home  with  her  for  a  couple  of  days  to  Baymouth,  and  did  not  make 
the  slightest  invitation  to  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis.  There  was  to  be  a 
ball  at  Baymouth,  and  it  was  to  be  Miss  Laura's  first  appearance. 
The  dowager  came  to  fetch  her  in  her  carriage,  and  she  went  off  with 
a  white  dress  in  her  bo.x,  happy  and  blushing,  like  the  rose  to  which 
Pen  compared  her. 

This  was  the  night  of  the  ball — a  public  entertainment  at  the  Bay- 
mouth Hotel.  "  By  Jove  ! "  said  Pen,  "  I'll  ride  over — No,  I  won't  ride, 
but  I'll  go  too."  His  mother  was  charmed  that  he  should  do  so;  and, 
as  he  was  debating  about  the  conveyance  in  which  he  should  start  for 
Baymouth,  Captain  Strong  called  opportunely,  said  he  was  going  him- 
self, and  that  he  would  put  his  horse,  The  Butcher  Boy,  into  the  gig, 
and  drive  Pen  over. 

When  the  grand  company  began  to  fill  the  house  at  Clavering 
Park,  the  Chevalier  Strong  seldom  intruded  himself  upon  its  society, 
but  went  elsewhere  to  seek  his  relaxation.  "  I've  seen  plenty  of  grand 
dinners  in  my  time,"  he  said,  "and  dined,  by  Jove,  in  a  company 
where  there  was  a  king  and  royal  duke  at  top  and  bottom,  and  every 
man  along  the  table  had  six  stars  on  his  coat ;  but  dammy,  Glanders, 


246  PEXDENNIS. 

this  finer}'  don't  suit  me;  and  the  EngHsh  ladies,  with  their  confounded 
buckram  airs,  and  the  squires  with  their  pohtics  after  dinner,  send  me 
to  sleep — sink  me  dead  if  they  don't.  I  like  a  place  where  I  can  blow 
my  cigar  when  the  cloth  is  removed,  and  when  I'm  thirsty,  have  my 
beer  in  its  native  pewter."  So  on  a  gala  day  at  Clavering  Park,  the 
Chevalier  would  content  himself  with  superintending  the  arrangements 
of  the  table,  and  drilling  the  major-domo  and  servants;  and  having 
looked  over  the  bill  of  fare  with  JNIonsieur  Mirobolant,  would  not  care 
to  take  the  least  part  in  the  banquet.  "  Send  me  up  a  cutlet  and  a 
bottle  of  claret  to  my  room,''  this  philosopher  would  say,  and  from  the 
windows  of  that  apartment,  which  commanded  the  terrace  and  avenue, 
he  would  survey  the  company  as  they  arrived  in  their  carriages,  or 
take  a  peep  at  the  ladies  in  the  hall  through  an  ceil-de-boeuf  which 
commanded  it  from  his  corridor.  And  the  guests  being  seated.  Strong 
would  cross  the  park  to  Captain  Glanders's  cottage  at  Clavering,  or  to 
pay  the  landlady  a  visit  at  the  Clavering  Arms,  or  to  drop  in  upon 
Madame  Fribsby  o\er  her  novel  and  tea.  Wherever  the  Chevalier 
went  he  was  welcome,  and  whenever  he  came  away  a  smell  of  hot 
brandy  and  water  lingered  behind  him. 

The  Butcher  Boy — not  the  worst  horse  in  Sir  Francis's  stable — 
was  appropriated  to  Captain  Strong's  express  use;  and  the  old  Cam- 
paigner saddled  him  and  brought  him  home  at  all  hours  of  the  day  or 
night,  and  drove  or  rode  him  up  and  down  the  countr}-.  Where  there 
was  a  public-house  with  a  good  tap  of  beer — where  there  was  a  tenant 
with  a  pretty  daughter  who  played  on  the  piano — to  Chatteris,  to  the 
play,  or  the  barracks — to  Baymouth,  if  any  fun  was  on  foot  there ;  to 
the  rural  fairs  or  races,  the  Che\alier  and  his  bro%\"n  horse  made  their 
way  continually ;  and  this  Avorthy  gentleman  lived  at  free  quarters  in  a 
friendly  country.  The  Butcher  Boy  soon  took  Pen  and  the  Chevalier 
to  Baymouth.  The  latter  was  as  familiar  with  the  hotel  and  landlord 
there  as  with  everj'  other  inn  round  about ;  and  having  been  accom- 
modated with  a  bed-room  to  dress,  they  entered  the  ball-room.  The 
Chevalier  was  splendid.  He  wore  three  little  gold  crosses  in  a 
brochette  on  the  portly  breast  of  his  blue  coat,  and  looked  like  a 
foreign  field-marshal. 

The  ball  was  public  and  all  sorts  of  persons  were  admitted  and 
encouraged  to  come,  young  Pynsent  having  views  upon  the  county,  and 
Lady  Rockminster  being  patroness  of  the  ball.  There  was  a  quadrille 
for  the  aristocracy  at  one  end,  and  select  benches  for  the  people  of 
fashion.  Towards  this  end  the  Chevalier  ditl  not  care  to  penetrate  far 
(as  he  said  he  did  not  care  for  the  nobs) ;  but  in  the  other  part  of  the 
room  he  knew  everybody — the  wine-merchants',  innkeepers",  trades- 
men's, solicitors',  squire-farmers'  daughters,  their  sires  ajid  brothers, 
and  plunged  about  shaking  hands. 


PENDENNIS.  247 

"Who  is  that  man  with  the  blue  ribbon  and  the  three-pointed 
star?"  asked  Pen.  A  gentleman  in  black  with  ringlets  and  a  tuft 
stood  gazing  fiercely  about  him,  with  one  hand  in  the  arm-hole  of  his 
waistcoat  and  the  other  holding  his  claque. 

"  By  Jupiter,  it's  Mirobolant ! "  cried  Strong,  bursting  out  laughing. 
"  Bon  jour,  Chef! — Bon  jour,  Chevalier  I " 

'■'■Do  la  croix  de  Juillet,  Chevalier!''^  said  the  Chef,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  decoration. 

"  By  Jove,  here's  some  more  ribbon  ! "  said  Pen,  amused. 

A  man  with  very  black  hair  and  whiskers,  dyed  evidently  with  the 
purple  of  Tyre,  with  twinkling  eyes  and  white  eyelashes,  and  a  thou- 
sand wrinkles  in  his  face,  which  was  of  a  strange  red  colour,  with  two 
under-vests,  and  large  gloves  and  hands,  and  a  profusion  of  diamonds 
and  jewels  in  his  waistcoat  and  stock,  with  coarse  feet  crumpled  into 
immense  shiny  boots,  and  a  piece  of  particoloured  ribbon  in  his  button- 
hole, here  came  up  and  nodded  familiarly  to  the  Chevalier. 

The  Chevalier  shook  hands.  "  My  friend  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Strong 
said.  "  Colonel  Altamont,  of  the  body-guard  of  his  Highness  the 
Nawaub  of  Lucknow."  That  officer  bowed  to  the  salute  of  Pen;  who 
was  now  looking  out  eagerly  to  see  if  the  person  he  wanted  had  entered 
the  room. 

Not  yet.  But  the  band  began  presently  performing  "  See  the 
Conquering  Hero  Comes,"  and  a  host  of  fashionables  —  Dowager 
Countess  of  Rockminster,  Mr.  Pynsent  and  Miss  Bell,  Sir  Francis 
Clavering,  Bart.,  of  Clavering  Park,  Lady  Clavering  and  Miss  Amory, 
Sir    Horace   Fogey,    Bart.,    Lady    Fogey,    Colonel   and    Mrs.   Higgs, 

Wagg,  Esq.  (as  the  county  paper  afterwards  described  them), 

entered  the  room. 

Pen  rushed  by  Blanche,  ran  up  to  Laura,  and  seized  her  hand. 
"  God  bless  you  ! "  he  said.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  you — I  must  speak  to 
you — Let  me  dance  with  you."  "  Not  for  three  dances,  dear  Pen," 
she  said,  smiling  :  and  he  fell  back,  biting  his  nails  with  vexation,  and 
forgetting  to  salute  Pynsent. 

After  Lady  Rockminster's  party.  Lady  Clavering's  followed  in  the 
procession. 

Colonel  Altamont  eyed  it  hard,  holding  a  most  musky  pocket- 
handkerchief  up  to  his  face,  and  bursting  with  laughter  behind  it. 

"Who's  the  gal  in  green  along  with  'em,  Cap'n.?"  he  asked  of 
Strong. 

"That's  Miss  Amory,.  Lady  Clavering's  daughter,"  replied  the 
Chevalier. 

The  Colonel  could  hardly  contain  himself  for  laughing. 


24S  PENDENiYIS. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

CONTAIXS    SOME   BALL-PRACTISING. 

UNDER  some  calico  draperies  in  the  shady  embrasure  of  a 
window,  Arthur  Pendennis  chose  to  assume  a  very  gloomy  and 
frowning  countenance,  and  to  watch  Miss  Bell  dance  her  first  quadrille 
with  Mr.  Pynsent  for  a  partner.  Miss  Laura's  face  was  beaming  with 
pleasure  and  good-nature.  The  lights  and  the  crowd  and  music 
excited  her.  As  she  spread  out  her  white  robes,  and  performed  her 
part  of  the  dance,  smiling  and  happy,  her  brown  ringlets  flowing  back 
over  her  fair  shoulders  from  her  honest  rosy  face,  more  than  one  gen- 
tleman in  the  room  admired  and  looked  after  her ;  and  Lady  Fogey, 
who  had  a  house  in  London,  and  gave  herself  no  small  airs  of  fashion 
when  in  the  country,  asked  of  Lady  Rockminster  who  the  young  person 
was,  mentioned  a  reigning  beauty  in  London  whom,  in  her  ladyship's 
opinion,  Laura  was  rather  like,  and  pronounced  that  she  would  '•  do." 

Lady  Rockminster  would  have  been  very  much  surprised  if  any 
protegee  of  hers  would  not  "  do,"  and  wondered  at  Lady  Fogey's 
impudence  in  judging  upon  the  point  at  all.  She  surveyed  Laura  with 
majestic  glances  through  her  eyeglass.  She  was  pleased  with  the  girl's 
artless  looks,  and  gay  innocent  manner.  "  Her  manner  is  verj-  good,'' 
her  ladyship  thought.  "  Her  arms  are  rather  red,  but  that  is  a  defect 
of  her  youth.  Her  ton  is  far  better  than  that  of  the  little  pert  Miss 
Amory,  who  is  dancing  opposite  to  her." 

Miss  Blanche  was,  indeed,  the  vis-a-vis  of  Miss  Laura,  and  smiled 
most  killingly  upon  her  dearest  friend,  and  nodded  to  her,  and  talked 
to  her,  when  they  met  during  the  quadrille  evolutions,  and  patronised 
her  a  great  deal.  Her  shoulders  were  the  whitest  in  the  whole  room  : 
and  they  were  never  easy  in  her  frock  for  one  single  instant :  nor  were 
her  eyes,  which  rolled  about  incessantly :  nor  was  her  little  fig^ire : — 
it  seemed  to  say  to  all  the  people,  "  Come  and  look  at  me — not  at 
that  pink,  healthy,  bouncing  country  lass.  Miss  Bell,  who  scarcely 
knew  how  to  dance  till  I  taught  her.  This  is  the  true  Parisian  manner 
— this  is  the  prettiest  httle  foot  in  the  room,  and  the  prettiest  little 
chaussure,  too.  Look  at  it,  Mr.  Pynsent.  Look  at  it,  Mr.  Pendennis, 
you  who  are  scowling  behind  the  curtain — I  know  you  arc  longing  to 
dance  with  me.'' 

Laura   went    on   dancing,    and    keeping    an   attentive   eye   upon 


PENDENNIS.  249 

Mr.  Pen  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  He  did  not  quit  that 
retirement  during  the  first  quadrille,  nor  until  the  second,  when  the 
good-natured  Lady  Clavering  beckoned  to  him  to  come  up  to  her 
to  the  dais  or  place  of  honour  where  the  dowagers  were,  and  whither 
Pen  went  blushing  and  exceedingly  awkward,  as  most  conceited 
young  fellows  are.  He  performed  a  haughty  salutation  to  Lady 
Rockminster,  who  hardly  acknowledged  his  bow,  and  then  went  and 
paid  his  respects  to  the  widow  of  the  late  Amory,  who  was  splendid  in 
diamonds,  velvet,  lace,  feathers,  and  all  sorts  of  millinery  and  gold- 
smith's ware. 

Young  Mr.  Fogey,  then  in  the  fifth  form  at  Eton,  and  ardently 
expecting  his  beard  and  his  commission  in  a  dragoon  regiment,  was 
the  second  partner  who  was  honoured  with  Miss  Bell's  hand.  He 
was  rapt  in  admiration  of  that  young  lady.  He  thought  he  had  never 
seen  so  charming  a  creature.  "I  like  you  much  better  than  the  French 
girl "  (for  this  young  gentleman  had  been  dancing  with  Miss  Amory 
before),  he  candidly  said  to  her.  Laura  laughed,  and  looked  more 
good-humoured  than  ever ;  and  in  the  midst  of  her  laughter  caught  a 
sight  of  Pen,  and  continued  to  laugh,  as  he,  on  his  side,  continued  to 
look  absurdly  pompous  and  sulky.  The  next  dance  was  a  waltz,  and 
young  Fogey  thought,  with  a  sigh,  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  waltz, 
and  vowed  he  would  have  a  master  the  next  holidays. 

Mr.  Pynsent  again  claimed  Miss  Bell's  hand  for  this  dance ;  and 
Pen  beheld  her,  in  a  fury,  twirling  round  the  room,  her  waist  encircled 
by  the  arm  of  that  gentleman.  He  never  used  to  be  angry  before 
when,  on  summer  evenings,  the  chairs  and  tables  being  removed, 
and  the  governess  called  downstairs  to  play  the  piano,  he  and  the 
Chevalier  Strong  (who  was  a  splendid  performer,  and  could  dance  a 
British  hornpipe,  a  German  waltz,  or  a  Spanish  fandango,  if  need 
were),  and  the  two  young  ladies,  Blanche  and  Laura,  improvised  little 
balls  at  Clavering  Park.  Laura  enjoyed  this  dancing  so  much,  and 
was  so  animated,  that  she  even  animated  Mr.  Pynsent.  Blanche,  v/ho 
could  dance  beautifully,  had  an  unlucky  partner,  Captain  Broadfoot, 
of  the  Dragoons,  then  stationed  at  Chatteris.  For  Captain  Broadfoot, 
though  devoting  himself  with  great  energy  to  the  object  in  view,  could 
not  get  round  in  time :  and,  not  having  the  least  ear  for  music,  was 
unaware  that  his  movements  were  too  slow. 

So,  in  the  waltz  as  in  the  quadrille.  Miss  Blanche  saw  that  her 
dear  friend  Laura  had  the  honours  of  the  dance,  and  was  by  no  means 
pleased  Avith  the  latter's  success.  After  a  couple  of  turns  with  the 
heavy  dragoon,  she  pleaded  fatigue,  and  requested  to  be  led  back  to 
her  place,  near  her  mamma,  to  whom  Pen  was  talking :  and  she  asked 
him  why  he  had  not  asked  her  to  waltz,  and  had  left  her  to  the  mercies 
of  that  great  odious  man  in  spurs  and  a  red  coat .'' 


250  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  thought  spurs  and  scarlet  were  the  most  fascinating  objects  in 
the  world  to  young  ladies,"  Pen  answered.  "  I  never  should  have  dared 
to  put  my  black  coat  in  competition  with  that  splendid  red  jacket." 

"  You  are  verj^  unkind  and  cruel  and  sulky  and  naughty,"  said 
Miss  Amory,  with  another  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  You  had  better 
go  away.     Your  cousin  is  looking  at  us  over  ]Mr.  Pynsent's  shoulder." 

"  Will  you  waltz  with  me  ?"  said  Pen. 

"  Not  this  waltz.  I  can't,  having  just  sent  away  that  great  hot 
Captain  Broadfoot.  Look  at  Mr.  Pynsent,  did  you  ever  see  such  a 
creature .''  But  I  will  dance  the  next  waltz  with  you,  and  the  quadrille 
too.  I  am  promised,  but  I  will  tell  Mr.  Poole  that  I  had  forgotten  my 
engagement  to  you." 

"  Women  forget  very  readily,"  Pendennis  said. 

"  But  they  always  come  back  and  are  very  repentant  and  sorrj^  for 
what  they've  done,"  Blanche  said.  "  See,  here  comes  the  Poker,  and 
dear  Laura  leaning  on  him.     How  pretty  she  looks  ! " 

Laura  came  up,  and  put  out  her  hand  to  Pen,  to  whom  Pynsent 
made  a  sort  of  bow,  appearing  to  be  not  much  more  graceful  than  that 
domestic  instrument  to  which  Miss  Amory  compared  him. 

But  Laura's  face  was  full  of  kindness.  "  I  am  so  glad  you  have 
come,  dear  Pen,"  she  said.  "  I  can  speak  to  you  now.  How  is 
mamma  ?  The  three  dances  are  over,  and  I  am  engaged  to  you  for 
the  next.  Pen." 

"  I  have  just  engaged  myself  to  IMiss  Amory,"  said  Pen ;  and  Miss 
Amory  nodded  her  head,  and  made  her  usual  little  curtsey.  "  I  don't 
intend  to  give  him  up,  dearest  Laura,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  then,  he'll  waltz  with  me,  dear  Blanche,"  said  the  other. 
"Won't  you,  Pen  ?" 

"  I  promised  to  waltz  with  Miss  Amor)-." 

"  Provoking ! "  said  Laura,  and  making  a  curtsey  in  her  turn,  she 
went  and  placed  herself  under  the  ample  wing  of  Lady  Rockminster. 

Pen  was  delighted  with  his  mischief  The  two  prettiest  girls  in 
the  room  were  quarrelling  about  him.  He  flattered  himself  he  had 
punished  Miss  Laura.  He  leaned  in  a  dandified  air,  with  his  elbow 
over  the  wall,  and  talked  to  Blanche ;  he  quizzed  unmercifully  all  the 
men  in  the  room — the  heavy  dragoons  in  their  tight  jackets — the 
country  dandies  in  their  queer  attire — the  strange  toilettes  of  the  ladies. 
One  seemed  to  have  a  bird's  nest  in  her  head ;  another  had  six  pounds 
of  grapes  in  her  hair,  beside  her  false  pearls.  "  It's  a  coiffure  of 
almonds  and  raisins,"  said  Pen,  "  and  might  be  scr\^ed  up  for  dessert." 
In  a  word,  he  was  exceedingly  satirical  and  amusing. 

During  the  quadrille  he  carried  on  this  kind  of  conversation  with 
unflinching  bitterness  and  vivacity,  and  kept  Blanche  continually 
laughing,  both  at  his  wickedness  and  jokes,  which  were  good,  and  also 


PENDEKNIS.  251 

because  Laura  was  again  their  vis-d-vis,  and  could  see  and  hear  how 
merry  and  confidential  they  were. 

"Arthur  is  charming  to-night,"  she  whispered  to  Laura,  across 
Cornet  Perch's  shell-jacket,  as  Pen  was  performing  cavalier  seiil  before 
them,  drawling  through  that  figure  with  a  thumb  in  the  pocket  of  each 
waistcoat. 

"  ?F/^(7.?"said  Laura. 

"  Arthur,"  answered  Blanche,  in  French.  "  Oh,  it's  such  a  pretty 
name ! "  And  now  the  young  ladies  went  over  to  Pen's  side,  and 
Cornet  Perch  performed  z.pas  seul  in  his  turn.  He  had  no  waistcoat- 
pocket  to  put  his  hands  into,  and  they  looked  large  and  swollen  as  they 
hung  before  him  depending  from  the  tight  arms  in  the  jacket. 

During  the  interval  between  the  quadrille  and  the  succeeding 
waltz.  Pen  did  not  take  any  notice  of  Laura,  except  to  ask  her 
whether  her  partner.  Cornet  Perch,  was  an  amusing  youth,  and 
whether  she  liked  him  so  well  as  her  other  partner,  Mr.  Pynsent. 
Having  planted  which  two  daggers  in  Laura's  bosom,  Mr.  Pendennis 
proceeded  to  rattle  on  with  Blanche  Amory,  and  to  make  jokes  good 
or  bad,  but  which  were  always  loud.  Laura  was  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  her  cousin's  sulky  behaviour,  and  ignorant  in  what  she  had  offended 
him ;  however,  she  was  not  angry  in  her  turn  at  Pen's  splenetic  mood, 
for  she  was  the  most  good-natured  and  forgiving  of  women,  and 
besides,  an  exhibition  of  jealousy  on  a  man's  part  is  not  always 
disagreeable  to  a  lady. 

As  Pen  could  not  dance  with  her,  she  was  glad  to  take  up  with 
the  active  Chevalier  Strong,  who  was  a  still  better  performer  than  Pen; 
and  being  very  fond  of  dancing,  as  every  brisk  and  innocent  young 
girl  should  be,  when  the  waltz  music  began  she  set  off,  and  chose  to 
enjoy  herself  with  all  her  heart.  Captain  Broadfoot  on  this  occasion 
occupied  the  floor  in  conjunction  with  a  lady  of  proportions  scarcely 
inferior  to  his  own :  Miss  Roundle,  a  large  young  woman  in  a  straw- 
berry-ice coloured  crape  dress,  the  daughter  of  the  lady  with  the  grapes 
in  her  head,  whose  bunches  Pen  had  admired. 

And  now  taking  his  time,  and  with  his  fair  partner  Blanche  hanging 
lovingly  on  the  arm  which  encircled  her,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  set 
out  upon  his  waltzing  career,  and  felt,  as  he  whirled  round  to  the 
music,  that  he  and  Blanche  were  performing  very  brilliantly  indeed. 
Very  likely  he  looked  to  see  if  Miss  Bell  thought  so  too;  but  she  did 
not  or  would  not  see  him,  and  was  always  engaged  with  her  partner 
Captain  Strong.  But  Pen's  triumph  was  not  destined  to  last  long: 
and  it  was  doomed  that  poor  Blanche  was  to  have  yet  another  dis- 
comfiture on  that  unfortunate  night.  While  she  and  Pen  were 
whirling  round  as  light  and  brisk  as  a  couple  of  opera-dancers,  honest 
Captain   Broadfoot   and  the  lady  round  whose  large  waist   he  was 


252  PENDENNIS. 

clinging,  were  twisting  round  very  leisurely  according  to  their  natures, 
and  indeed  were  in  everj'body's  way.  But  they  were  more  in  Pen- 
dennis's  way  than  in  anybody's  else,  for  he  and  Blanche,  whilst 
executing  their  rapid  gjTations,  came  bolt  up  against  the  heavy- 
dragoon  and  his  lady,  and  with  such  force  that  the  centre  of  gravity 
was  lost  by  all  four  of  the  circumvolving  bodies ;  Captain  Broadfoot 
and  Miss  Roundle  were  fairly  upset,  as  was  Pen  himself,  who  was  less 
lucky  than  his  partner  Miss  Amor)',  who  was  only  thrown  upon  a 
bench  against  a  wall. 

But  Pendennis  came  fairly  down  upon  the  floor,  sprawling  in  the 
general  ruin  with  Broadfoot  and  Miss  Roundle.  The  Captain,  though 
heavy,  was  good-natured,  and  was  the  first  to  burst  out  into  a  loud 
laugh  at  his  own  misfortune,  which  nobody  therefore  heeded.  But 
Miss  Amor>'  was  savage  at  her  mishap  ;  Miss  Roundle,  placed  on  her 
scant,  and  looking  pitifully  round,  presented  an  object  which  verj^  few 
people  could  see  without  laughing  ;  and  Pen  was  furious  when  he 
heard  the  people  giggling  about  him.  He  was  one  of  those  sarcastic 
young  fellows  that  did  not  bear  a  laugh  at  his  own  expense,  and  of  all 
things  in  the  world  feared  ridicule  most. 

As  he  got  up  Laura  and  Strong  were  laughing  at  him;  everybody 
was  laughing ;  Pynsent  and  his  partner  were  laughing ;  and  Pen 
boiled  with  wrath  against  the  pair,  and  could  have  stabbed  them  both 
on  the  spot.  He  turned  away  in  a  fury  from  them,  and  began  blun- 
dering out  apologies  to  Miss  Amory.  It  was  the  other  couple's  fault 
— the  woman  in  pink  had  done  it — Pen  hoped  Miss  Amory  was  not 
hurt — would  she  not  have  the  courage  to  take  another  turn  .'' 

Miss  Amory  in  a  pet  said  she  was  very  much  hurt  indeed,  and 
she  would  not  take  another  turn ;  and  she  accepted  with  great  thanks 
a  glass  of  water  which  a  cavalier,  who  wore  a  blue  ribbon  and  a 
three-pointed  star,  rushed  to  fetch  for  her  when  he  had  seen  the 
deplorable  accident.  She  drank  the  water,  smiled  upon  the  bringer 
gracefully,  and  turning  her  white  shoulder  at  Mr.  Pen  in  the  most 
marked  and  haughty  manner,  besought  the  gentleman  with  the  star 
to  conduct  her  to  her  mamma ;  and  she  held  out  her  hand  in  order  to 
take  his  arm. 

The  man  with  the  star  trembled  with  delight  at  this  mark  of  her 
favour;  he  bowed  over  her  hand,  pressed  it  to  his  coat  fervidly,  and 
looked  round  him  with  triumph. 

It  was  no  other  than  the  happy  Mirobolant  whom  Blanche  had 
selected  as  an  escort.  But  the  truth  is,  that  the  young  lady  had  never 
fairly  looked  in  the  artist's  face  since  he  had  been  employed  in  her 
mothers  family,  and  had  no  idea  but  it  was  a  foreign  nobleman  on 
whose  arm  she  was  leaning.  As  she  went  otT,  Pen  forgot  his  humilia- 
tion in  his  surprise,  and  cried  out,  "  By  Jove,  it's  the  cook  ! " 


PENDENNIS.  .  253 

The  instant  he  had  uttered  the  words,  he  was  sorry  for  having 
spoken  them — for  it  was  Blanche  who  had  herself  invited  Mirobolant 
to  escort  her,  nor  could  the  artist  do  otherwise  than  comply  with  a 
lady's  command.  Blanche  in  her  flutter  did  not  hear  what  Arthur 
said ;  but  Mirobolant  heard  him,  and  cast  a  furious  glance  at  him 
over  his  shoulder,  which  rather  amused  Mr.  Pen.  He  was  in  a 
mischievous  and  sulky  humour;  wanting  perhaps  to  pick  a  quarrel 
with  somebody;  but  the  idea  of  having  insulted  a  cook,  or  that 
such  an  individual  should  have  any  feeling  of  honour  at  all,  did 
not  much  enter  into  the  mind  of  this  lofty  young  aristocrat,  the 
apothecary's  son. 

It  had  never  entered  that  poor  artist's  head,  that  he  as  a  man  was 
not  equal  to  any  other  mortal,  or  that  there  was  anything  in  his 
position  so  degrading  as  to  prevent  him  from  giving  his  arm  to  a 
lady  who  asked  for  it.  He  had  seen  in  the  fetes  in  his  own  country 
line  ladies,  not  certainly  demoiselles  (but  the  demoiselle  Anglaise  he 
knew  was  a  great  deal  more  free  than  the  spinster  in  France),  join  in 
the  dance  with  Blaise  or  Pierre :  and  he  would  have  taken  Blanche 
up  to  Lady  Clavering,  and  possibly  have  asked  her  to  dance  too,  but 
he  heard  Pen's  exclamation,  which  struck  him  as  if  it  had  shot  him, 
and  cruelly  humiliated  and  angered  him.  She  did  not  know  what 
caused  him  to  start,  and  to  grind  a  Gascon  oath  between  his  teeth. 

But  Strong,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  poor  fellow's  state  of 
mind,  having  had  the  interesting  information  from  our  friend  Madame 
Fribsby,  was  luckily  in  the  way  when  wanted,  and  saying  something 
rapidly  in  Spanish,  which  the  other  understood,  the  Chevalier  begged 
Miss  Amory  to  come  and  take  an  ice  before  she  went  back  to  Lady 
Clavering.  Upon  which  the  unhappy  Mirobolant  relinquished  the 
arm  which  he  had  held  for  a  minute,  and  with  a  most  profound  and 
piteous  bow,  fell  back.  "  Don't  you  know  who  it  is  ? "  Strong  asked 
of  Miss  Amory,  as  he  led  her  away.     "  It  is  the  chef  Mirobolant." 

"  How  should  I  know?"  asked  Blanche.  "He  has  a  croixj  he 
is  very  distingue;  he  has  beautiful  eyes." 

"  The  poor  fellow  is  mad  for  your  beatix  yeux,  I  believe,"  Strong 
said.  "  He  is  a  very  good  cook,  but  he  is  not  quite  right  in  the 
head." 

"What  did  you  say  to  him  in  the  unknown  tongue  ?"  asked  Miss 
Blanche. 

"  He  is  a  Gascon,  and  comes  from  the  borders  of  Spain,"  Strong 

answered.    "  I  told  him  he  would  lose  his  place  if  he  walked  with  you." 

"  Poor  Monsieur  Mirobolant!"  said  Blanche. 

"Did  you   see   the  look  he  gave   Pendennis  ?  "  —  Strong  asked, 

enjoying  the  idea  of  the  mischief—"  I  think  he  would  like  to  run  little 

Pen  through  with  one  of  his  spits." 


254  PENDENNIS. 

"  He  is  an  odious,  conceited,  clumsy  creature,  that  Mr.  Pen,"  said 
Blanche. 

"  Broadfoot  looked  as  if  he  would  like  to  kill  him  too,  so  did 
Pynsent,'"'  Strong  said.  "  What  ice  will  you  have — water  ice  or 
cream  ice.'"' 

"  Water  ice.  Who  is  that  odd  man  staring  at  me — he  is  decore 
too." 

"  That  is  my  friend  Colonel  Altamont,  a  very  queer  character,  in 
the  service  of  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow.  Hallo !  what's  that  noise  "i 
I'll  be  back  in  an  instant,"  said  the  Chevalier,  and  sprang  out  of  the 
room  to  the  ball-room,  where  a  scuffle  and  noise  of  high  voices  was 
heard. 

The  refreshment-room,  in  which  Aliss  Amory  now  found  herself, 
was  a  room  set  apart  for  the  purposes  of  supper,  which  Mr.  Rincer  the 
landlord  had  provided  for  those  who  chose  to  partake,  at  the  rate  of 
five  shillings  per  head.  Also,  refreshments  of  a  superior  class  were 
here  ready  for  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  county  families  who 
came  to  the  ball ;  but  the  commoner  sort  of  persons  were  kept  out  of 
the  room  by  a  waiter  who  stood  at  the  portal,  and  who  said  that  was 
a  select  room  for  Lady  Clavering  and  Lady  Rockminster's  parties,  and 
not  to  be  opened  to  the  public  till  supper-time,  which  was  not  to 
be  until  past  midnight.  Pynsent,  who  danced  with  his  constituents' 
daughters,  took  them  and  their  mammas  in  for  their  refreshment 
there.  Strong,  who  was  manager  and  master  of  the  revels  wherever 
he  went,  had  of  course  the  entree — and  the  only  person  who  was  now 
occupying  the  room,  was  the  gentleman  with  the  black  wig  and  the 
orders  in  his  button-hole;  the  officer  in  the  service  of  his  Highness  the 
Nawaub  of  Lucknow. 

This  gentleman  had  established  himself  very  early  in  the  evening 
in  this  apartment,  where,  saying  he  was  confoundedly  thirsty,  he  called 
for  a  bottle  of  champagne.  At  this  order,  the  waiter  instantly  sup- 
posed that  he  had  to  do  with  a  grandee,  and  the  Colonel  sate  down 
and  began  to  eat  his  supper  and  absorb  his  drink,  and  enter  affably 
into  conversation  with  anybody  who  entered  the  room. 

Sir  Francis  Clavering  and  Mr.  Wagg  found  him  there  ;  when  they 
left  the  ball-room,  which  they  did  pretty  early — Sir  Francis  to  go  and 
smoke  a  cigar,  and  look  at  the  people  gathered  outside  the  ball-room 
on  the  shore,  which  he  declared  was  much  better  fun  than  to  remain 
within ;  Mr.  Wagg  to  hang  on  to  a  Baronet's  arm,  as  he  was  always 
pleased  to  do  on  the  arm  of  the  greatest  man  in  the  company.  Colonel 
Altamont  had  stared  at  these  gentlemen  in  so  odd  a  manner,  as  they 
passed  through  the  "  Select"  room,  that  Clavering  made  inquiries  of 
the  landlord  who  he  was,  and  hinted  a  strong  opinion  that  the  officer 
of  the  Nawaub's  service  was  drunk. 


PENDENNIS.  255 

Mr.  Pynsent,  too,  had  had  the  honour  of  a  conversation  with  the 
servant  of  the  Indian  potentate.  It  was  Pynsent's  cue  to  speak  to 
everybody ;  (which  he  did,  to  do  him  justice,  in  the  most  ungracious 
manner;)  and  he  took  the  gentleman  in  the  black  wig  for  some  con- 
stitueiit,  some  merchant  captain,  or  other  outlandish  man  of  the  place. 
Mr.  Pynsent,  then,  coming  into  the  refreshment-room  with  a  lady,  the 
wife  of  a  constituent,  on  his  arm,  the  Colonel  asked  him  if  he  would 
try  a  glass  of  Sham?  Pynsent  took  it  with  great  gravity,  bowed, 
tasted  the  wine,  and  pronounced  it  excellent,  and  with  the  utmost 
politeness  retreated  before  Colonel  Altamont.  This  gravity  and 
decorum  routed  and  surprised  the  Colonel  more  than  any  other  kind 
of  behaviour  probably  would :  he  stared  after  Pynsent  stupidly,  and 
pronounced  to  the  landlord  over  the  counter  that  he  was  a  rum  one. 
Mr.  Rincer  blushed,  and  hardly  knew  what  to  say.  Mr.  Pynsent  was 
a  county  earl's  grandson,  going  to  set  up  as  a  Parliament  man. 
Colonel  Altamont,  on  the  other  hand,  wore  orders  and  diamonds, 
jingled  sovereigns  constantly  in  his  pocket,  and  paid  his  way  like  a 
man ;  so  not  knowing  what  to  say,  Mr.  Rincer  said,  "  Yes,  Colonel — 
yes,  ma'am,  did  you  say  tea  ?  Cup  a  tea  for  Mr.  Jones,  Mrs.  R.,"  and 
so  got  off  that  discussion  regarding  Mr.  Pynsent's  qualities,  into  which 
the  Nizam's  officer  appeared  inclined  to  enter. 

In  fact,  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  Mr.  Altamont,  having  remained 
at  the  buffet  almost  all  night,  and  employed  himself  very  actively 
whilst  there,  had  considerably  flushed  his  brain  by  drinking,  and  he 
was  still  going  on  drinking,  when  Mr.  Strong  and  Miss  Amory  entered 
the  room. 

When  the  Chevalier  ran  out  of  the  apartment,  attracted  by  the 
noise  in  the  dancing-room,  the  Colonel  rose  from  his  chair  with  his 
little  red  eyes  glowing  like  coals,  and,  with  rather  an  unsteady  gait, 
advanced  towards  Blanche,  who  was  sipping  her  ice.  She  was 
absorbed  in  absorbing  it,  for  it  was  very  fresh  and  good  ;  or  she  was 
not  curious  to  know  what  was  going  on  in  the  adjoining  room, 
although  the  waiters  were,  who  ran  after  Chevalier  Strong.  So  that 
when  she  looked  up  from  her  glass,  she  beheld  this  strange  man 
staring  at  her  out  of  his  little  red  eyes.  "  Who  was  he  .''  It  was  quite 
exciting." 

"  And  so  you're  Betsy  Amory,"  said  he,  after  gazing  at  her.  "  Betsy 
Amory,  by  Jove ! " 

"Who — who  speaks  to  me.?"  said  Betsy,  alias  Blanche. 

But  the  noise  in  the  ball-room  is  really  becoming  so  loud,  that  we 
must  rush  back  thither,  and  see  what  is  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 


256  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

WHICH   IS   BOTH   QUARRELSOME   AND   SENTIMENTAL. 

CIVIL  war  was  raging,  high  words  passing,  people  pushing  and 
squeezing  together  in  an  unseemly  manner,  round  a  window  in 
the  corner  of  the  ball-room,  close  by  the  door  through  which  the 
Chevalier  Strong  shouldered  his  way.  Through  the  opened  window, 
the  crowd  in  the  street  below  was  sending  up  sarcastic  remarks,  such 
as  "Pitch  into  him!"  "Where's  the  police.^"  and  the  like;  and  a 
ring  of  individuals,  among  whom  Madame  Fribsby  was  conspicuous, 
Avas  gathered  round  Monsieur  Alcide  Mirobolant  on  the  one  side ; 
whilst  several  gentlemen  and  ladies  surrounded  our  friend  Arthur 
Pendennis  on  the  other.  Strong  penetrated  into  this  assembly, 
elbowing  by  Madame  Fribsby,  who  was  charmed  at  the  Chevaliers 
appearance,  and  cried,  "  Save  him,  save  him  ! "  in  frantic  and  pathetic 
accents. 

The  cause  of  the  disturbance,  it  appeared,  was  the  angry  little  chef 
of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  culinary  establishment.  Shortly  after  Strong 
had  quitted  the  room,  and  whilst  Mr.  Pen,  greatly  irate  at  his  downfall 
in  the  waltz,  which  had  made  him  look  ridiculous  in  the  eyes  of  the 
nation,  and  by  Miss  Amory's  behaviour  to  him,  which  had  still  further 
insulted  his  dignity,  was  endeavouring  to  get  some  coolness  of  body 
and  temper,  by  looking  out  of  window  towards  the  sea,  which  was 
sparkling  in  the  distance,  and  murmuring  in  a  wonderful  calm — whilst 
he  was  really  trj-ing  to  compose  himself,  and  owning  to  himself,  per- 
haps, that  he  had  acted  in  a  ver\'  absurd  and  peevish  manner  during 
the  night — he  felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder ;  and,  on  looking  round, 
beheld,  to  his  utter  surprise  and  horror,  that  the  hand  in  question 
belonged  to  Monsieur  Mirobolant,  whose  eyes  were  glaring  out  of  his 
pale  face  and  ringlets  at  Mr.  Pen.  To  be  tapped  on  the  shoulder  by 
a  French  cook  was  a  piece  of  familiarity  which  made  the  blood  of  the 
Pendennises  to  boil  up  in  the  veins  of  their  descendant,  and  he  was 
astounded,  almost  more  than  enraged,  at  such  an  indignity. 

"  You  speak  French  ?"  Mirobolant  said  in  his  own  language,  to  Pen. 

"What  is  that  to  you,  pray?"  said  Pen,  in  English. 

"  At  any  rate,  you  understand  it  ? "  continued  the  other,  with  a  bow. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Pen,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot ;  "  I  understand  it 
pretty  well." 


PENDENNIS.  257 

"  Vous  me  comprendrez  alors,  Monsieur  Pendennis,"  replied  the 
other,  rolling  out  his  r  with  Gascon  force,  "  quand  je  vous  dis 
que  vous  etes  un  liche,  Monsieur  Pendennis — un  lache,  entendez- 
vous  ?" 

"What?"  said  Pen,  starting  round  on  him. 

"  You  understand  the  meaning  of  the  word  and  its  consequences 
among  men  of  honour  ?  "  the  artist  said,  putting  his  hand  on  his  hip, 
and  staring  at  Pen. 

"  The  consequences  are,  that  I  will  fling  you  out  of  window,  you 
— impudent  scoundrel,"  bawled  out  Mr.  Pen ;  and  darting  upon  the 
Frenchman,  he  would  very  likely  have  put  his  threat  into  execution, 
for  the  window  was  -at  hand,  and  the  artist  by  no  means  a  match  for 
the  young  gentleman^ — had  not  Captain  Broadfoot  and  another  heavy 
officer  flung  themselves  between  the  combatants, — had  not  the  ladies 
begun  to  scream, — had  not  the  fiddles  stopped, — had  not  the  crowd  of 
people  come  running  in  that  direction, — had  not  Laura,  with  a  face  of 
great  alarm,  looked  over  their  heads  and  asked  for  Heaven's  sake  what 
was  wrong, — had  not  the  opportune  Strong  made  his  appearance  from 
the  refreshment-room,  and  found  Alcides  grinding  his  teeth  and  jab- 
bering oaths  in  his  Gascon  French,  and  Pen  looking  uncommonly 
wicked,  although  trying  to  appear  as  calm  as  possible,  when  the  ladies 
and  the  crowd  came  up. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  Strong  asked  of  the  chef,  in  Spanish. 

"  I  am  Chevalier  de  Juillet,"  said  the  other,  slapping  his  breast, 
"  and  he  has  insulted  me." 

"  What  has  he  said  to  you  ?"  asked  Strong. 

"  II  m'a  appele — Cuisinier"  hissed  out  the  little  Frenchman. 

Strong  could  hardly  help  laughing.  "  Come  away  with  me,  my  poor 
Chevalier,"  he  said.  "  We  must  not  quarrel  before  ladies.  Come  away; 
I  will  carry  your  message  to  Mr.  Pendennis. — The  poor  fellow  is  not 
right  in  his  head,"  he  whispered  to  one  or  two  people  about  him ; — and 
others,  and  anxious  Laura's  face  visible  amongst  these,  gathered  round 
Pen  and  asked  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 

Pen  did  not  know.  "The  man  was  going  to  give  his  arm  to  a 
young  lady,  on  which  I  said  that  he  was  a  cook,  and  the  man  called 
me  a  coward  and  challenged  me  to  fight.  I  own  I  was  so  surprised 
and  indignant,  that  if  you  gentlemen  had  not  stopped  me,  1  should 
have  thrown  him  out  of  window,"  Pen  said. 

"  D him,  serve  him  right,  too,— the  d — -  impudent  foreign 

scoundrel,"  the  gentlemen  said. 

"  I— I'm  very  sorry  if  I  hurt  his  feelings,  though,"  Pen  added :  and 
Laura  was  glad  to  hear  him  say  that ;  although  some  of  the  young 
bucks  said,  "  No,  hang  the  fellow,— hang  those  impudent  foreigners- 
little  thrashing  would  do  them  good." 

17 


258  PENDENNIS. 

"  You  will  go  and  shake  hands  with  him  before  you  go  to  sleep— 
won't  you,  Pen?"  said  Laura,  coming  up  to  him.  "  Foreigners  may- 
be more  susceptible  than  we  are,  and  have  different  manners.  If  you 
hurt  a  poor  man's  feelings,  I  am  sure  you  would  be  the  first  to  ask  his 
pardon.     Wouldn't  you,  dear  Pen?" 

She  looked  all  forgiveness  and  gentleness,  like  an  angel,  as  she 
spoke,  and  Pen  took  both  her  hands,  and  looked  into  her  kind  face, 
and  said  indeed  he  would. 

"  How  fond  that  girl  is  of  me ! "  he  thought,  as  she  stood  gazing  at 
him.  "  Shall  I  speak  to  her  now  ?  No — not  now.  I  must  have  this 
absurd  business  with  the  Frenchman  over." 

Laura  asked — Wouldn't  he  stop  and  dance  with  her  ?  She  was  as 
anxious  to  keep  him  in  the  room,  as  he  to  quit  it.  "  Won't  you  stop 
and  waltz  with  me.  Pen  ?     I'm  not  afraid  to  waltz  with  you." 

This  was  an  affectionate,  but  an  unlucky  speech.  Pen  saw  himself 
prostrate  on  the  ground,  having  tumbled  over  Miss  Roundle  and  the 
dragoon,  and  flung  Blanche  up  against  the  wall — saw  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  all  the  people  laughing  at  him,  Laura  and  Pynsent 
amongst  them. 

"  I  shall  never  dance  again,"  he  replied,  with  a  dark  and  determined 
face.     "  Never.     I'm  surprised  you  should  ask  me." 

"  Is  it  because  you  can't  get  Blanche  for  a  partner?"  asked  Laura, 
with  a  wicked,  unlucky  captiousness. 

"  Because  I  don't  wish  to  make  a  fool  of  myself,  for  other  people  to 
laugh  at  me,"  Pen  answered — "  for  you  to  laugh  at  me,  Laura.  I  saw 
you  and  Pynsent.     By  Jove !  no  man  shall  laugh  at  me." 

"  Pen,  Pen,  don't  be  so  wicked ! "  cried  out  the  poor  girl,  hurt  at  the 
morbid  perverseness  and  savage  vanity  of  Pen.  He  was  glaring  round 
in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Pynsent  as  if  he  would  have  hked  to  engage 
that  gentleman  as  he  had  done  the  cook.  "  Who  thinks  the  worse  of 
you  for  stumbling  in  a  waltz  ?"  If  Laura  does,  we  don't.  "  Why  are 
you  so  sensitive,  and  ready  to  think  evil  ?  " 

Here  again,  by  ill  luck,  Mr.  Pynsent  came  up  to  Laura,  and  said, 
"  I  have  it  in  command  from  Lady  Rockminster  to  ask  v.hether  I  may 
take  you  in  to  supper  ? " 

"  I — I  was  going  in  with  my  cousin,"  Laura  said. 

"  O — pray,  no  ! "  said  Pen.  "  You  are  in  such  good  hands,  that  I 
can't  do  better  than  leave  you  :  and  I'm  going  home." 

"  Good  night,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Pynsent  said,  drily — to  which 
speech  (which  in  fact  meant,  "  Go  to  the  deuce  for  an  insolent, 
jealous,  impertinent  jacknapes,  whose  ears  I  should  like  to  bo.\") 
Mr.  Pendennis  did  not  vouchsafe  any  reply,  except  a  bow :  and,  in 
spile  of  Laura's  imploring  looks,  he  left  the  room. 

"  How  beautifully  calm   and    bright   the  night    outside   is ! "  said 


PENDENNIS.  -        259 

Mr.  Pynsent;  "and  what  a  murmur  the  sea  is  makhig  !     It  would  be 
pleasanter  to  be  walking  on  the  beach,  than  in  this  hot  room." 

"  Very,"  said  Laura. 

"  What  a  strange  congregation  of  people,"  continued  Pynsent. 
"  I  have  had  to  go  up  and  perform  the  agreeable  to  most  of  them — 
the  attorney's  daughters — the  apothecary's  wife — I  scarcely  know 
whom.  There  was  a  man  in  the  refreshment-room,  who  insisted  upon 
treating  me  to  champagne — a  seafaring-looking  man — extraordinarily 
dressed,  and  seeming  half  tipsy.  As  a  public  man,  one  is  bound  to 
conciliate  all  these  people,  but  it  is  a  hard  task— especially  when  one 
would  so  very  much  like  to  be  elsewhere" — and  he  blushed  rather  as 
he  spoke. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Laura — "  I — I  was  not  listening. 
Indeed — I  was  frightened  about  that  quarrel  between  my  cousin  and 
that — that — French  person." 

"  Your  cousin  has  been  rather  unlucky  to-night,"  Pynsent  said. 
"  There  are  three  or  four  persons  whom  he  has  not  succeeded  in 
pleasing — Captain  Broadwood  ;  what  is  his  name — the  officer^and 
the  young  lady  in  red  with  whom  he  danced — and  Miss  Blanche — 
and  the  poor  chef — and  I  don't  think  he  seemed  to  be  particularly 
pleased  with  me." 

"Didn't  he  leave  me  in  charge  to  you?"  Laura  said,  looking  up 
into  Mr.  Pynsent's  face,  and  dropping  her  eyes  instantly,  like  a  guilty 
little  story-telling  coquette. 

"  Indeed,  I  can  forgive  him  a  good  deal  for  that,"  Pynsent  eagerly 
cried  out,  and  she  took  his  arm,  and  he  led  off  his  little  prize  in  the 
direction  of  the  supper-room. 

She  had  no  great  desire  for  that  repast,  though  it  was  served  in 
Rincer's  well-known  style,  as  the  county  paper  said,  giving  an  account 
of  the  entertainment  afterwards ;  indeed,  she  was  very  distraite  j  and 
e.Kceedingly  pained  and  unhappy  about  Pen.  Captious  and  quarrel- 
some ;  jealous  and  selfish ;  fickle  and  violent  and  unjust  when  his 
anger  led  him  astray ;  how  could  her  mother  (as  indeed  Helen  had  by 
a  thousand  words  and  hints)  ask  her  to  give  her  heart  to  such  a  man  } 
and  suppose  she  were  to  do  so,  would  it  make  him  happy  ? 

But  she  got  some  relief  at  length,  when,  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour 
—a  long  half-hour  it  had  seemed  to  her — a  waiter  brought  her  a  little 
note  in  pencil  from  Pen,  who  said,  "  I  met  Cooky  below  ready  to 
fight  me ;  and  I  asked  his  pardon.  I'm  glad  I  did  it.  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  to-night,  but  will  keep  what  I  had  to  say  till  you  come 
home.  God  bless  you.  Dance  away  all  night  with  Pynsent,  and 
be  very  happy.  Pen." — Laura  was  very  thankful  for  this  letter,  and 
to  think  that  there  was  goodness  and  forgiveness  still  in  her  mother's 
boy. 


26c  FENDEiYNIS. 

Pen  went  downstairs,  his  heart  reproaching  him  for  his  absurd 
behaviour  to  Laura,  whose  gentle  and  imploring  looks  followed  and 
rebuked  him ;  and  he  was  scarcely  out  of  the  ball-room  door  before 
he  longed  to  turn  back  and  ask  her  pardon.  But  he  remembered  that 
he  had  left  her  with  that  confounded  Pynsent.  He  could  not  apologise 
before  him.  He  would  compromise  and  forget  his  wrath,  and  make 
his  peace  with  the  Frenchman. 

The  Chevalier  was  pacing  down  below  in  the  haU  of  the  inn  when 
Pen  descended  from  the  ball-room ;  and  he  came  up  to  Pen,  with  all 
sorts  of  fun  and  mischief  lighting  up  his  jolly  face. 

"  I  have  got  him  in  the  coffee-room,"  he  said,  "  with  a  brace  of 
pistols  and  a  candle.  Or  would  you  like  swords  on  the  beach  ? 
Mirobolant  is  a  dead  hand  with  the  foils,  and  killed  four  gardes-dit- 
corps  with  his  own  point  in  the  barricades  of  July." 

"  Confound  it,"  said  Pen,  in  a  fury,  "  I  can't  fight  a  cook !" 

"  He  is  a  Chevalier  of  July,"  replied  the  other.  "  They  present 
arms  to  him  in  his  own  country." 

"  And  do  you  ask  me.  Captain  Strong,  to  go  out  with  a  servant?" 
Pen  asked  fiercely ;  "  111  call  a  policeman  for  himj  but — but — " 

"  You'll  invite  me  to  hair  triggers  ? "  cried  Strong,  with  a  laugh. 
"  Thank  you  for  nothing ;  I  was  but  joking.  I  came  to  settle  quarrels, 
not  to  fight  them.  I  have  been  soothing  down  Mirobolant ;  I  have 
told  him  that  you  did  not  apply  the  word  '  Cook '  to  him  in  an  offen- 
sive sense  :  that  it  was  contrary  to  all  the  customs  of  the  country  that 
a  hired  officer  of  a  household,  as  I  called  it,  should  give  his  arm  to  the 
daughter  of  the  house."  And  then  he  told  Pen  the  grand  secret  which 
he  had  had  from  Madame  Fribsby,  of  the  violent  passion  under  which 
the  poor  artist  was  labouring. 

When  Arthur  heard  this  tale,  he  broke  out  into  a  hearty  laugh,  in 
which  Strong  joined,  and  his  rage  against  the  poor  cook  vanished  at 
once.  He  had  been  absurdly  jealous  himself  all  the  evening,  and  had 
longed  for  a  pretext  to  insult  Pynsent.  He  remembered  how  jealous 
he  had  been  of  Oaks  in  his  first  affair  ;  he  was  ready  to  pardon  any- 
thing to  a  man  under  a  passion  like  that :  and  he  went  into  the  coffee- 
room  where  Mirobolant  was  waiting,  with  an  out-stretched  hand,  and 
made  him  a  speech  in  French,  in  which  he  declared  that  he  was 
"  sincerement  fache  d'avoir  use  une  expression  qui  avoit  pu  blesser 
Monsieur  Mirobolant,  et  qu'il  donnoit  sa  parole  comme  un  gentil- 
homme  qu'il  ne  I'avoit  jamais,  jamais — intende,"  said  Pen,  who  made 
a  shot  at  a  French  word  for  "  intended,"  and  was  secretly  much 
pleased  with  his  own  fluency  and  correctness  in  speaking  that  lan- 
guage. 

"  Bravo,  bravo  ! "  cried  Strong,  as  much  amused  with  Pen's  speech 
as  pleased  by  his  kind  manner.      "  And  the  Chevalier  Mirobolant  of 


FEA'DEAW/S.  261 

course  withdraws  and  sincerely  regrets  the  expression  of  which  he 
made  use." 

"  Monsieur  Pendennis  has  disproved  my  words  himself,"  said  Alcide 
with  great  politeness  ;  "  he  has  shown  that  he  is  a  galant  hoininc." 

And  so  they  shook  hands  and  parted,  Arthur  in  the  first  place 
dispatching  his  note  to  Laura  before  he  and  Strong  committed  them- 
selves to  the  Butcher  Boy. 

As  they  drove  along,  Strong  complimented  Pen  upon  his  behaviour, 
as  well  as  upon  his  skill  in  French.  "  You're  a  good  fellow,  Pendennis, 
and  you  speak  French  like  Chateaubriand,  by  Jove." 

"  I've  been  accustomed  to  it  from  my  youth  upwards,'-'  said  Pen  ; 
and  Strong  had  the  grace  not  to  laugh  for  five  minutes,  when  he 
exploded  into  fits  of  hilarity  which  Pendennis  has  never,  perhaps, 
understood  up  to  this  day. 

It  was  daybreak  when  they  got  to  the  Brawl,  where  they  separated. 
By  that  time  the  ball  at  Baymouth  was  over  too.  Madame  Fribsby 
and  Mirobolant  were  on  their  way  home  in  the  Clavering  fly  ;  Laura 
was  in  bed  with  an  easy  heart  and  asleep  at  Lady  Rockminster's  ;  and 
the  Claverings  at  rest  at  the  inn  at  Baymouth,  where  they  had  quarters 
for  the  night.  A  short  time  after  the  disturbance  between  Pen  and  the 
chef,  Blanche  had  come  out  of  the  refreshment-room,  looking  as  pale 
as  a  lemon-ice.  She  told  her  maid,  having  no  other  confidante  -^sX  hand, 
that  she  had  met  with  the  most  romantic  adventure — the  most  singular 
man — one  who  had  known  the  author  of  her  being — her  persecuted — 
her  unhappy — her  heroic — her  murdered  father ;  and  she  began  a 
sonnet  to  his  manes  before  she  went  to  sleep. 

So  Pen  returned  to  Fairoaks,  in  company  with  his  friend  the 
Chevalier,  without  having  uttered  a  word  of  the  message  which  he 
had  been  so  anxious  to  deliver  to  Laura  at  Baymouth.  He  could  wait, 
however,  until  her  return  home,  which  was  to  take  place  on  the 
succeeding  day.  He  was  not  seriously  jealous  of  the  progress  made 
by  Mr.  Pynsent  in  her  favour ;  and  he  felt  pretty  certain  that  in  this, 
as  in  any  other  family  arrangement,  he  had  but  to  ask  and  have,  and 
Laura,  like  his  mother,  could  refuse  him  nothing. 

When  Helen's  anxious  looks  inquired  of  him  what  had  happened 
at  Baymouth,  and  whether  her  darling  project  was  fulfilled,  Pen,  in  a 
gay  tone,  told  of  the  calamity  which  had  befallen ;  laughingly  said, 
that  no  man  could  think  about  declarations  under  such  a  mishap,  and 
made  light  of  the  matter.  "  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  for  sentiment, 
dear  mother,  when  Laura  comes  back,"  he  said,  and  he  looked  in  the 
glass  with  a  killing  air,  and  his  mother  put  his  hair  off  his  forehead 
and  kissed  him,  and  of  course  thought,  for  her  part,  that  no  woman 
could  resist  him  ;  and  was  exceedingly  happy  that  day. 


262  PENDEXNIS. 

When  he  was  not  with  her,  Mr.  Pen  occupied  himself  in  packing 
books  and  portmanteaus,  burning  and  arranging  papers,  cleaning  his 
gun  and  putting  it  into  its  case :  in  fact,  in  making  dispositions  for 
departure.  For  though  he  was  ready  to  marrj-,  this  gentleman  was 
eager  to  go  to  London  too,  rightly  considering  that  at  three-and-twenty 
it  was  quite  time  for  him  to  begin  upon  the  serious  business  of  life, 
and  to  set  about  making  a  fortune  as  quickly  as  possible. 

The  means  to  this  end  he  had  already  shaped  out  for  himself.  "  I 
shall  take  chambers,"  he  said,  "  and  enter  myself  at  an  Inn  of  Court. 
With  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds  I  shall  be  able  to  carr)'  through  the 
first  year  verj-  well ;  after  that  I  have  little  doubt  my  pen  will  support 
me,  as  it  is  doing  with  several  Oxbridge  men  now  in  town.  I  have  a 
tragedy,  a  comedy,  and  a  novel,  all  nearly  finished,  and  for  which  T 
can't  fail  to  get  a  price.  And  so  I  shall  be  able  to  live  pretty  well, 
without  drawing  upon  my  poor  mother,  until  I  have  made  my  way  at 
the  bar.  Then,  some  day  I  will  come  back  and  make  her  dear  soul 
happy  by  marrying  Laura.  She  is  as  good  and  as  sweet-tempered  a 
girl  as  ever  lived,  besides  being  really  very  good-looking,  and  the 
engagement  will  serve  to  steady  me, — won't  it,  Ponto?"  Thus, 
smoking  his  pipe,  and  talking  to  his  dog  as  he  sauntered  through  the 
gardens  and  orchards  of  the  little  domain  of  Fairoaks,  this  young  day- 
dreamer  built  castles  in  the  air  for  himself:  "Yes,  she'll  steady  me, 
won't  she  ?  And  you'll  miss  me  when  IVe  gone,  won't  you,  old  boy  -^ " 
he  asked  of  Ponto,  who  quivered  his  tail  and  thinist  his  brown  nose 
into  his  master's  fist.  Ponto  licked  his  hand  and  shoe,  as  they  all  did 
in  that  house,  and  Mr.  Pen  received  their  homage  as  other  folks  do  the 
flattery  which  they  get. 

Laura  came  home  rather  late  in  the  evening  of  the  second  day ; 
and  Mr.  Pynsent,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  drove  her  from  Clavering. 
The  poor  girl  could  not  refuse  his  offer,  but  his  appearance  brought  a 
dark  cloud  upon  the  brow  of  Arthur  Pendennis.  Laura  saw  this,  and 
was  pained  by  it :  the  eager  widow,  however,  was  aware  of  nothing, 
and  being  anxious,  doubtless,  that  the  delicate  question  should  be 
asked  at  once,  was  for  going  to  bed  ver\'  soon  after  Laura's  arrival, 
and  rose  for  that  purpose  to  leave  the  sofa  where  she  now  generallv 
lay,  and  where  Laura  would  come  and  sit  and  work  or  read  by  her. 
But  when  Helen  rose,  Laura  said,  with  a  blush  and  rather  an  alarmed 
voice,  that  she  was  also  ver)'  tired  and  wanted  to  go  to  bed :  so  that 
the  widow  was  disappointed  in  her  scheme  for  that  night  at  least,  and 
Mr.  Pen  was  left  another  day  in  suspense  regarding  his  fate. 

His  dignity  was  offended  at  being  thus  obliged  to  remain  in  the 
ante-chamber  when  he  wanted  an  audience.  Such  a  sultan  as  he 
could  not  afford  to  be  kept  waiting.  However  he  went  to  bed  and 
slept  upon  his  disappointment  pretty  comfortably,  and  did  not  wake 


PEABENNIS.  263 

until  the  early  morning,  when  he  looked  up  and  saw  his  mother  stand- 
ing in  his  room. 

"  Dear  Pen,  rouse  up,"  said  this  lady.  "  Do  not  be  lazy.  It  is  the 
most  beautiful  morning  in  the  world.  I  have  not  been  able  to  sleep 
since  daybreak ;  and  Laura  has  been  out  for  an  hour.  She  is  in  the 
garden.  Everybody  ought  to  be  in  the  garden  and  out  on  such  a 
morning  as  this." 

Pen  laughed.  He  sav/  what  thoughts  were  uppermost  in  the  simple 
woman's  heart.  His  good-natured  laughter  cheered  the  widow.  "  Oh 
you  profound  dissembler,"  he  said,  kissing  his  mother.  "  Oh  you 
artful  creature !  Can  nobody  escape  from  your  wicked  tricks .'  and 
will  you  make  your  only  son  your  victim.^"  Helen  too  laughed,  she 
blushed,  she  fluttered,  and  was  agitated.  She  was  as  happy  as  she 
could  be — a  good,  tender,  matchmaking  woman,  the  dearest  project  of 
whose  heart  was  about  to  be  accomplished. 

So,  after  exchanging  some  knowing  looks  and  hasty  words,  Helen 
left  Arthur ;  and  this  young  hero,  rising  from  his  bed,  proceeded  to 
decorate  his  beautiful  person,  and  shave  his  ambrosial  chin ;  and  in 
half  an  hour  he  issued  out  from  his  apartment  into  the  garden  in  quest 
of  Laura.  His  reflections  as  he  made  his  toilette  were  rather  dismal. 
"  1  am  going  to  tie  myself  for  life,"  he  thought,  "  to  please  my  mother. 
Laura  is  the  best  of  women,  and — and  she  has  given  me  her  money. 
I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  not  received  it ;  I  wish  I  had  not  this  duty  to 
perform  just  yet.  But  as  both  the  women  have  set  their  hearts  on  the 
match,  why  I  suppose  I  must  satisfy  them — and  now  for  it.  A  man 
may  do  worse  than  make  happy  two  of  the  best  creatures  in  the 
world."  .So  Pen,  now  he  was  actually  come  to  the  point,  felt  very 
grave,  and  by  no  means  elated,  and,  indeed,  thought  it  was  a  great 
sacrifice  he  was  going  to  perform. 

It  was  Miss  Laura's  custom,  upon  her  garden  excursions,  to  wear 
a  sort  of  uniform,  which,  though  homely,  was  thought  by  many  people 
to  be  not  unbecoming.  She  had  a  large  straw  hat,  with  a  streamer 
of  broad  ribbon,  which  was  useless  probably,  but  the  hat  sufficiently 
protected  the  owner's  pretty  face  from  the  sun.  Over  her  accustomed 
gown  she  wore  a  blouse  or  pinafore,  which,  being  fastened  round 
her  little  waist  by  a  smart  belt,  looked  extremely  well,  and  her 
hands  were  guaranteed  from  the  thorns  of  her  favourite  rose-bushes 
by  a  pair  of  gauntlets,  which  gave  this  young  lady  a  military  and 
resolute  air. 

Somehow  she  had  the  very  same  smile  with  which  she  had  laughed 
at  him  on  the  night  previous,  and  the  recollection  of  his  disaster  again 
offended  Pen.  But  Laura,  though  she  saw  him  coming  down  the 
walk  looking  so  gloomy  and  full  of  care,  accorded  to  him  a  smile  of 


.  264  PENDENNTS. 

the  most  perfect  and  provoking  good-humour,  and  went  to  meet  him, 
holding  one  of  the  gauntlets  to  him,  so  that  he  might  shake  it  if  he 
liked — and  Mr.  Pen  condescended  to  do  so.  His  face,  however,  did 
not  lose  its  tragic  expression  in  consequence  of  this  favour,  and  he 
continued  to  regard  her  with  a  dismal  and  solemn  air. 

"  Excuse  my  glove,"  said  Laura,  with  a  laugh,  pressing  Pen's  hand 
kindly  with  it.     '•  We  are  not  angry  again,  are  we.  Pen  .'"' 

"  Why  do  you  laugh  at  me  .'' "  said  Pen.  "  You  did  the  other  night, 
and  made  a  fool  of  me  to  the  people  at  Baymouth." 

"  My  dear  Arthur,  I  meant  you  no  wrong,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  You  and  Miss  Roundle  looked  so  droll  as  you — as  you  met  with 
your  little  accident,  that  I  could  not  make  a  tragedy  of  it.  Dear  Pen, 
it  wasn't  a  serious  fall.  And,  besides,  it  was  Miss  Roundle  who  was 
the  most  unfortunate." 

"  Confound  Miss  Roundle  ! "  bellowed  out  Pen. 

"  I'm  sure  she  looked  so,"  said  Laura,  archly.  "  You  were  up  in 
an  instant ;  but  that  poor  lady  sitting  on  the  ground  in  her  red  crape 
dress,  and  looking  about  her  with  that  piteous  face — can  I  ever  forget 
her .'' " — and  Laura  began  to  make  a  face  in  imitation  of  Miss  Roundle's 
under  the  disaster,  but  she  checked  herself  repentantly,  saying,  '"  Well, 
we  must  not  laugh  at  her,  but  I  am  sure  we  ought  to  laugh  at  you, 
Pen,  if  you  were  angry  about  such  a  trifle." 

"Yo7i  should  not  laugh  at  me,  Laura,"  said  Pen,  with  some  bitter- 
ness ;  "  not  you,  of  all  people." 

"  And  why  not  ?    Are  you  such  a  great  man  }  "  asked  Laura. 

"  Ah,  no,  Laura,  I'm  such  a  poor  one,"  Pen  answered.  "  Haven't 
you  baited  me  enough  already } " 

"  My  dear  Pen,  and  how  ? "  cried  Laura.  "  Indeed,  indeed,  I 
didn't  think  to  vex  you  by  such  a  trifle.  I  thought  such  a  clever  man 
as  you  could  bear  a  harmless  little  joke  from  his  sister,"  she  said, 
holding  her  hand  out  again.  "  Dear  Arthur,  if  I  have  hurt  you,  I  beg 
your  pardon." 

"  It  is  your  kindness  that  humiliates  me  more  even  than  your 
laughter,  Laura,"  Pen  said.     "  You  are  always  my  superior." 

"What  !  superior  to  the  great  Arthur  Pendennis  ?  How  can  it  be 
possible  ?  "  said  Miss  Laura,  who  may  have  had  a  little  wickedness  as 
well  as  a  great  deal  of  kindness  in  her  composition.  "  You  can't  mean 
that  any  woman  is  your  equal .''  " 

"  Those  who  confer  benefits  should  not  sneer,"  said  Pen.  "  I 
don't  like  my  benefactor  to  laugh  at  me,  Laura ;  it  makes  the  obliga- 
tion very  hard  to  bear.  You  scorn  me  because  I  have  taken  your 
money,  and  I  am  worthy  to  be  scorned  j  but  the  blow  is  hard,  coming 
from  you." 

"  Money  !     Obligation  !     For  shame,  Pen ;    this   is   ungenerous," 


PENDENNIS.  26; 

Laura  said,  flushing  red.  "  May  not  our  mother  claim  everything 
that  belongs  to  us  ?  Don't  I  owe  her  all  my  happiness  in  this  world, 
Arthur  ?  What  matters  about  a  few  paltry  guineas,  if  we  can  set  her 
tender  heart  at  rest,  and  ease  her  mind  regarding  you  ?  I  would  dig 
in  the  fields,  I  would  go  out  and  be  a  servant — I  would  die  for  her. 
You  know  I  would,"  said  Miss  Laura,  kindling  up  ;  "  and  you  call 
this  paltry  money  an  obligation  ?  Oh,  Pen,  it's  cruel — it's  unworthy 
of  you  to  take  it  so  !  If  my  brother  may  not  share  with  me  my 
superfluity,  who  may  ? — Mine  ? — I  tell  you  it  was  not  mine;  it  was  all 
mamma's  to  do  with  as  she  chose,  and  so  is  everything  I  have,"  said 
Laura;  "  my  life  is  hers."  And  the  enthusiastic  girl  looked  towards 
the  windows  of  the  widow's  room,  and  blessed  in  her  heart  the  kind 
creature  within. 

Helen  was  looking,  unseen,  out  of  that  window  towards  which 
Laura's  eyes  and  heart  were  turned  as  she  spoke,  and  was  watching 
her  two  children  with  the  deepest  interest  and  emotion,  longing  and 
hoping  that  the  prayer  of  her  life  might  be  fulfilled  ;  and  if  Laura 
had  spoken  as  Helen  hoped,  who  knows  what  temptations  Arthur 
Pendennis  might  have  been  spared,  or  what  different  trials  he  would 
have  had  to  undergo  ?  He  might  have  remained  at  Fairoaks  all  his 
days,  and  died  a  country  gentleman.  But  would  he  have  escaped 
then  ?  Temptation  is  an  obsequious  servant  that  has  no  objection  to 
the  country,  and  we  know  that  it  takes  up  its  lodging  in  hermitages 
as  well  as  in  cities ;  and  that  in  the  most  remote  and  inaccessible 
desert  it  keeps  company  with  the  fugitive  solitary. 

"/r  your  life  my  mother's,"  said  Pen,  beginning  to  tremble,  and 
speak  in  a  very  agitated  manner.  "  You  know,  Laura,  what  the  great 
object  of  hers  is  ? ''     And  he  took  her  hand  once  more. 

"  What,  Arthur.''"  she  said,  dropping  it,  and  looking  at  him,  at  the 
window  again,  and  then  dropping  her  eyes  to  the  ground,  so  that  they 
avoided  Pen's  gaze.  She,  too,  trembled,  for  she  felt  that  the  crisis  for 
which  she  had  been  secretly  preparing  was  come. 

"  Our  mother  has  one  wish  above  all  others  in  the  world,  Laura," 
Pen  said,  "  and  I  think  you  know  it.  I  own  to  you  that  she  has 
spoken  to  me  of  it ;  and  if  you  will  fulfil  it,  dear  sister,  I  am  ready. 
I  am  but  very  young  as  yet ;  but  I  have  had  so  many  pains  and  dis- 
appointments, but  I  am  old  and  weary.  I  think  I  have  hardly  got  a 
heart  to  offer.  Before  I  have  almost  begun  the  race  in  life,  I  am  a 
tired  man.  My  career  has  been  a  failure ;  I  have  been  protected  by 
those  whom  I  by  right  should  have  protected.  I  own  that  your 
nobleness  and  generosity,  dear  Laura,  shame  me,  whilst  they  render 
me  grateful.  When  I  heard  from  our  mother  what  you  had  done  for 
me  :  that  it  was  you  who  armed  me  and  bade  me  go  out  for  one 
struggle  more ;  I  longed  to  go  and  throw  myself  at  your  feet,  and 


266  PENDE.XNIS. 

say,  '  Laura,  will  you  come  and  share  the  contest  with  me  ?  Your 
sympathy  will  cheer  me  while  it  lasts.  I  shall  have  one  of  the 
tenderest  and  most  generous  creatures  under  heaven  to  aid  and  bear 
me  company.'  Will  you  take  me,  dear  Laura,  and  make  our  mother 
happy?" 

"  Do  you  think  mamma  would  be  happy  if  you  Avere  otherwise, 
Arthur  ?  "  Laura  said  in  a  low  sad  voice. 

"  And  why  should  I  not  be,"  asked  Pen  eagerly,  "  with  so  dear  a 
creature  as  you  by  my  side  }  I  have  not  my  first  love  to  give  you.  I 
am  a  broken  man.  But  indeed  I  would  love  you  fondly  and  truly. 
I  have  lost  many  an  illusion  and  ambition,  but  I  am  not  without  hope 
still.  Talents  I  know  I  have,  wretchedly  as  I  have  misapplied  them : 
they  may  serve  me  yet :  they  would,  had  I  a  motive  for  action.  Let 
me  go  away  and  think  that  I  am  pledged  to  return  to  you.  Let  me 
go  and  work,  and  hope  that  you  will  share  my  success  if  I  gain  it.  You 
have  given  me  so  much,  dear  Laura,  will  you  take  from  me  nothing.''" 

"  What  have  you  got  to  give,  Arthur  ? "  Laura  said,  with  a  grave 
sadness  of  tone,  which  made  Pen  start,  and  see  that  his  words  had 
committed  him.  Indeed,  his  declaration  had  not  been  such  as  he 
would  have  made  it  two  days  earlier,  when,  full  of  hope  and  gratitude, 
he  had  run  over  to  Laura,  his  liberatress,  to  thank  her  for  his 
recovered  freedom.  Had  he  been  permitted  to  speak  then,  he  had 
spoken,  and  she,  perhaps,  had  listened  differently.  It  would  have 
been  a  grateful  heart  asking  for  hers ;  not  a  weary  one  offered  to  her, 
to  take  or  to  leave.  Laura  was  offended  with  the  terms  in  which  Pen 
offered  himself  to  her.  He  had.  in  fact,  said  that  he  had  no  love,  and 
yet  would  take  no  denial.  "  I  give  myself  to  you  to  please  my 
mother,"  he  had  said :  "  take  me,  as  she  wishes  that  I  should  make 
this  sacrifice."  The  girl's  spirit  would  brook  a  husband  under  no  such 
conditions  :  she  was  not  minded  to  run  forward  because  Pen  chose  to 
hold  out  the  handkerchief,  and  her  tone,  in  reply  to  Arthur,  showed 
her  determination  to  be  independent. 

"  No,  Arthur,"  she  said,  "  our  maiTiage  would  not  make  mamma 
happy,  as  she  fancies ;  for  it  would  not  content  you  very  long.  I,  too, 
have  known  what  her  wishes  were ;  for  she  is  too  open  to  conceal 
anything  she  has  at  heart :  and  once,  perhaps,  I  thought — but  that  is 
over  now — that  I  could  have  made  you — that  it  might  have  been  as 
she  wished." 

"  You  have  seen  somebody  else  ? "  said  Pen,  angrj-  at  her  tone,  and 
recalling  the  incidents  of  the  past  days. 

"  That  allusion  might  have  been  spared,"  Laura  replied,  flinging  up 
her  head.  "  A  heart  which  has  worn  out  love  at  three-and-twenty,  as 
yours  has,  you  say,  should  have  survived  jealousy  too.  I  do  not  con- 
descend to  say  whether  I  have  se6n  or  encouraged  any  other  person. 


PENDENNIS.  267 

I  shall  neither  admit  the  charge,  nor  deny  it :  and  beg  you  also  to 
allude  to  it  no  more." 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  Laura,  if  I  have  offended  you ;  but  if  I  am 
jealous,  does  it  not  prove  that  I  have  a  heart  ?" 

"  Not  for  me,  Arthur.  Perhaps  you  think  you  love  me  now  :  but 
it  is  only  for  an  instant,  and  because  you  are  foiled.  Were  there  no 
obstacle,  you  would  feel  no  ardour  to  overcome  it.  No,  Arthur,  you 
don't  love  me.  You  would  weary  of  me  in  three  months,  as — as  you 
do  of  most  things;  and  mamma,  seeing  you  tired  of  me,  would  be 
more  unhappy  than  at  my  refusal  to  be  yours.  Let  us  be  brother  and 
sister,  Arthur,  as  heretofore — but  no  more.  You  will  get  over  this 
little  disappointment." 

"  I  will  try,"  said  Arthur,  in  a  great  indignation. 

"Have  you  not  tried  before?"  Laura  said,  with  some  anger,  for 
she  had  been  angry  with  Arthur  for  a  very  long  time,  and  was  now 
determined,  I  suppose,  to  speak  her  mind.  "  And  the  next  time, 
Arthur,  when  you  offer  yourself  to  a  woman,  do  not  say  as  you  have 
done  to  me,  '  I  have  no  heart — I  do  not  love  you ;  but  I  am  ready  to 
marry  you  because  my  mother  wishes  for  the  match.'  We  require 
more  than  this  in  return  for  our  love — that  is,  I  think  so.  I  have  had 
no  experience  hitherto,  and  have  not  had  the — the  practice  which  you 
supposed  me  to  have,  when  you  spoke  but  now  of  my  having  seen 
somebody  else.  Did  you  tell  your  first  love  that  you  had  no  heart, 
Arthur .''  or  your  second  that  you  did  not  love  her,  but  that  she  might 
have  you  if  she  liked  .'' " 

"  What — what  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Arthur,  blushing,  and  still  in 
great  wrath. 

"  I  mean  Blanche  Amory,  Arthur  Pendennis,"  Laura  said,  proudly. 
"  It  is  but  two  months  since  you  were  sighing  at  her  feet — making 
poems  to  her — placing  them  in  hollow  trees  by  the  river-side.  I  knew 
all.  I  watched  you — that  is,  she  showed  them  to  me.  Neither  one 
nor  the  other  were  in  earnest  perhaps  ;  but  it  is  too  soon  now,  Arthur,  to 
begin  a  new  attachment.  Go  through  the  time  of  your — your  widow- 
hood at  least,  and  do  not  think  of  marrying  until  you  are  out  of  mourn- 
ing."— (Here  the  girl's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  passed  her  hand 
across  them.)  "  I  am  angry  and  hurt,  and  I  have  no  right  to  be  so, 
and  I  ask  your  pardon  in  my  turn  now,  dear  Arthur.  You  had  a  right 
to  love  Blanche.  She  was  a  thousand  times  prettier  and  more  accom- 
plished than — than  any  girl  near  us  here  ;  and  you  could  not  know  that 
she  had  no  heart ;  and  so  you  were  right  to  leave  her  too.  1  ought  not 
to  rebuke  you  about  Blanche  Amory,  and  because  she  deceived  you. 
Pardon  me.  Pen," — and  she  held  the  kind  hand  out  to  Pen  once  more, 

"We  were  both  jealous,"  said  Pen.  "Dear  Laura,  let  us  both 
forgive  " — and  he  seized  her  hand  and  would  have  drawn  her  towards 


368  PENDENNIS. 

him.  He  thought  that  she  was  relenting,  and  already  assumed  the 
airs  of  a  victor. 

But  she  shrank  back,  and  her  tears  passed  away ;  and  she  fixed 
on  him  a  look  so  melancholy  and  severe,  that  the  young  man  in  his 
turn  shrunk  before  it.  "  Do  not  mistake  me,  Arthur,"  she  said  :  "  it 
cannot  be.  You  do  not  know  what  you  ask,  and  do  not  be  too  angry 
with  me  for  saying  that  I  think  you  do  not  deserve  it.  What  do  you 
offer  in  exchange  to  a  woman  for  her  love,  honour,  and  obedience  ? 
If  ever  I  say  these  words,  dear  Pen,  I  hope  to  say  them  in  earnest, 
and  by  the  blessing  of  God  to  keep  my  vow.  But  you — what  tie  binds 
you .''  You  do  not  care  about  many  things  which  we  poor  women  hold 
sacred.  I  do  not  like  to  think  or  ask  how  far  your  incredulity  leads 
you.  You  offer  to  marry  to  please  our  mother,  and  own  that  you  have 
no  heart  to  give  away.  Oh,  Arthur,  what  is  it  you  offer  me  ?  What 
a  rash  compact  would  you  enter  into  so  lightly  !  A  month  ago,  and 
you  would  have  given  yourself  to  another.  I  pray  you  do  not  trifle 
with  your  own  or  others'  hearts  so  recklessly.  Go  and  work ;  go  and 
mend,  dear  Arthur,  for  I  see  your  faults,  and  dare  speak  of  them  now: 
go  and  get  fame,  as  you  say  that  you  can,  and  I  Avill  pray  for  my 
brother,  and  watch  our  dearest  mother  at  home." 

"  Is  that  your  final  decision,  Laura?"  Arthur  cried. 

"  Yes,"  said  Laura,  bowing  her  head ;  and  once  more  giving  him 
her  hand,  she  went  away.  He  saw  her  pass  under  the  creepers  of  the 
little  porch,  and  disappear  into  the  house.  The  curtains  of  his  mother's 
window  fell  at  the  same  minute,  but  he  did  not  mark  that,  or  suspect 
that  Helen  had  been  witnessing  the  scene. 

Was  he  pleased,  or  was  he  angry  at  its  termination  ?  He  had 
asked  her,  and  a  secret  triumph  filled  his  heart  to  think  that  he  was 
still  free.  She  had  refused  him,  but  did  she  not  love  him?  That 
avowal  of  jealousy  made  him  still  think  that  her  heart  was  his  own, 
whatever  her  lips  might  utter. 

And  now  we  ought,  perhaps,  to  describe  another  scene  which  took 
place  at  Fairoaks,  between  the  widow  and  Laura,  when  the  latter  had 
to  tell  Helen  that  she  had  refused  Arthur  Pendennis.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  hardest  task  of  all  which  Laura  had  to  go  through  in  this  matter : 
and  the  one  which  gave  her  the  most  pain.  But  as  we  do  not  like  to 
see  a  good  woman  unjust,  we  shall  not  say  a  word  more  of  the  quarrel 
which  now  befel  between  Helen  and  her  adopted  daughter,  or  of  the 
bitter  tears  which  the  poor  girl  was  made  to  shed.  It  was  the  only 
difference  which  she  and  the  widow  had  ever  had  as  yet,  and  the  more 
cruel  from  this  cause.  Pen  left  home  whilst  it  was  as  yet  pending — 
and  Helen,  who  could  pardon  almost  everything,  could  not  pardon  an 
act  of  justice  in  Laura. 


PENDENNIS.  369 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

BABYLON. 

OUR  reader  must  now  please  to  quit  the  woods  and  sea-shore  of 
the  west,  and  the  gossip  of  Clavering,  and  the  humdrum  hfe  of 
poor  little  Fairoaks,  and  transport  himself  with  Arthur  Pendennis,  on 
the  "  Alacrity  "  coach,  to  London,  whither  he  goes  once  for  all  to  face 
the  world  and  to  make  his  fortune.  As  the  coach  whirls  through  the 
night  away  from  the  friendly  gates  of  home,  many  a  plan  does  the 
young  man  cast  in  his  mind  of  future  life  and  conduct,  prudence,  and 
peradventure  success  and  fame.  He  knows  he  is  a  better  man  than 
many  who  have  hitherto  been  ahead  of  him  in  the  race :  his  lirst 
failure  has  caused  him  remorse,  and  brought  with  it  reflection ;  it  has 
not  taken  away  his  courage,  or,  let  us  add,  his  good  opinion  of  him- 
self. A  hundred  eager  fancies  and  busy  hopes  keep  him  awake.  How 
much  older  his  mishaps  and  a  year's  thought  and  self-communion 
have  made  him,  than  when,  twelve  months  since,  he  passed  on  this 
road  on  his  way  to  and  from  Oxbridge !  His  thoughts  turn  in  the 
night  with  inexpressible  fondness  and  tenderness  towards  the  fond 
mother,  who  blessed  him  when  parting,  and  who,  in  spite  of  all  his 
past  faults  and  follies,  trusts  him  and  loves  him  still.  Blessings  be 
on  her!  he  prays,  as  he  looks  up  to  the  stars  overhead.  O  Heaven, 
give  him  strength  to  work,  to  endure,  to  be  honest,  to  avoid  tempta- 
tion, to  be  worthy  of  the  loving  soul  who  loves  him  so  entirely !  Very 
likely  she  is  awake  too,  at  that  moment,  and  sending  up  to  the  same 
Father  purer  prayers  than  his  for  the  welfare  of  her  boy.  That 
woman's  love  is  a  talisman  by  which  he  holds  and  hopes  to  get  his 
safety.  And  Laura's — he  would  have  fain  carried  her  affection  with 
him  too,  but  she  has  denied  it,  as  he  is  not  worthy  of  it.  He  owns  as 
much  with  shame  and  remorse ;  confesses  how  much  better  and  loftier 
her  nature  is  than  his  own — -confesses  it,  and  yet  is  glad  to  be  free. 
"  I  am  not  good  enough  for  such  a  creature,"  he  owns  to  himself  He 
draws  back  before  her  spotless  beauty  and  innocence,  as  from  some- 
thing that  scares  him.  He  feels  he  is  not  fit  for  such  a  mate  as  that ; 
as  many  a  wild  prodigal  who  has  been  pious  and  guiltless  in  early 
days,  keeps  away  from  a  church  which  he  used  to  frequent  once — 
shunning  it,  but  not  hostile  to  it— only  feeling  that  he  has  no  right  in 
that  pure  place. 


270  PENDENNIS. 

With  these  thoughts  to  occupy  him,  Pen  did  not  fall  asleep  until 
the  nipping  dawn  of  an  October  morning,  and  woke  considerably 
refreshed  when  the  coach  stopped  at  the  old  breakfasting  place  at 

B ^  where  he  had  had  a  score  of  merry  meals  on  his  way  to  and 

from  school  and  college  many  times  since  he  was  a  boy.  As  they  left 
that  place,  the  sun  broke  out  brightly,  the  pace  was  rapid,  the  horn 
blew,  the  milestones  flew  by.  Pen  smoked  and  joked  with  guard  and 
fellow-passengers  and  people  along  the  familiar  road;  it  grew  more 
busy  and  animated  at  every  instant ;  the  last  team  of  greys  came  out 

at  H ,  and  the  coach  drove  into  London.     What  young  fellow  has 

not  felt  a  thrill  as  he  entered  the  vast  place?  Hundreds  of  other 
carriages,  crowded  with  their  thousands  of  men,  were  hastening  to  the 
great  city,  "Here  is  my  place,"  thought  Pen;  "here  is  my  battle 
beginning,  in  which  I  must  fight  and  conquer,  or  fall.  I  have  been  a 
boy  and  a  dawdler  as  yet.  Oh,  I  long,  I  long  to  show  that  I  can  be  a 
man.  And  from  his  place  on  the  coach-roof  the  eager  young  fellow 
looked  down  upon  the  city,  with  the  sort  of  longing  aesire  which  young 
soldiers  feel  on  the  eve  of  a  campaign. 

As  they  came  along  the  road.  Pen  had  formed  acquaintance  with 
a  cheery  fellow-passenger  in  a  shabby  cloak,  who  talked  a  great  deal 
about  men  of  letters  with  whom  he  was  very  familiar,  and  who  was,  in 
fact,  the  reporter  of  a  London  newspaper,  as  whose  representative  he 
had  been  to  attend  a  great  wrestling-match  in  the  west.  This  gentle- 
man knew  intimately,  as  it  appeared,  all  the  leading  men  of  letters  of 
his  day,  and  talked  about  Tom  Campbell,  and  Tom  Hood,  and 
Sydney  Smith,  and  this  and  the  other,  as  if  he  had  been  their  most 
intimate  friend.  As  they  passed  by  Brompton,  this  gentleman  pointed 
out  to  Pen  Mr.  Hurtle,  the  reviewer,  walking  with  his  umbrella.  Pen 
craned  over  the  coach  to  have  a  long  look  at  the  great  Hurtle.  He 
was  a  Boniface  man,  said  Pen.  And  Mr.  Doolan,  of  the  •'  Tom  and 
Jerry"  newspaper  (for  such  was  the  gentleman's  name  and  address 
upon  the  card  which  he  handed  to  Pen),  said,  "  Faith  he  was,  and  he 
knew  him  very  well."  Pen  thought  it  was  quite  an  honour  to  have  seen 
the  great  Mr.  Hurtle,  whose  works  he  admired.  He  believed  fondly, 
as  yet,  in  authors,  reviewers,  and  editors  of  newspapers.  E\en  Wagg, 
whose  books  did  not  appear  to  him  to  be  masterpieces  of  human  intel- 
lect, he  yet  secretly  revered  as  a  successful  writer.  He  mentioned  that 
he  had  met  Wagg  in  the  country,  and  Doolan  told  him  how  that  famous 
novelist  received  three  hundther  pounds  a  volume  for  every  one  of  his 
novels.  Pen  began  to  calculate  instantly  whether  he  might  not  make 
five  thousand  a  year. 

The  very  first  acquaintance  of  his  own  whom  Arthur  met,  as  the 
coach  pulled  up  at  the  Glo'ster  Coffec-House,  was  his  old  friend  Harry 
Foker,  who  came  prancing  down  Arlington  Street  behind  an  enormous 


PENDENNIS.  271 

cab-horse.  He  had  white  kid-gloves  and  white  reins,  and  nature  had 
by  this  time  decorated  him  with  a  considerable  tuft  on  the  chin.  A 
very  small  cab-boy,  vice  Stoopid  retired,  swung  on  behind  Faker's 
vehicle ;  knock-knee'd  and  in  the  tightest  leather-breeches.  Foker 
looked  at  the  dusty  coach  and  the  smoking  horses  of  the  "  Alacrity," 
by  which  he  had  made  journeys  in  former  times. — "  What,  Foker  ! " 
cried  out  Pendennis — "  Hullo  !  Pen,  my  boy  !"  said  the  other,  and  he 
waved  his  whip  by  way  of  amity  and  salute  to  Arthur,  who  was  very 
glad  to  see  his  queer  friend's  kind  old  face.  Mr.  Doolan  had  a  great 
respect  for  Pen,  who  had  an  acquaintance  in  such  a  grand  cab ;  and 
Pen  was  greatly  excited  and  pleased  to  be  at  liberty  and  in  London. 
He  asked  Doolan  to  come  and  dine  with  him  at  the  Covent  Garden 
Coffee-House,  where  he  put  up :  he  called  a  cab  and  rattled  away 
thither  in  the  highest  spirits.  He  was  glad  to  see  the  bustling  waiter 
and  polite  'jowing  landlord  again :  and  asked  for  the  landlady,  and 
missed  the  old  Boots,  and  would  have  liked  to  shake  hands  with 
everybody.  He  had  a  hundred  pounds  in  his  pocket.  He  dressed 
himself  in  his  very  best ;  dined  in  the  coffee-room  with  a  modest  pint 
of  sherry  (for  he  was  determined  to  be  very  economical),  and  went  to 
the  theatre  adjoining. 

The  lights  and  the  music,  the  crowd  and  the  gaiety,  charmed  and 
exhilarated  Pen,  as  those  sights  will  do  young  fellows  from  college 
and  the  country,  to  whom  they  are  tolerably  new.  He  laughed  at  the 
jokes ;  he  applauded  the  songs,  to  the  delight  of  some  of  the  dreary 
old  habitue's  of  the  boxes,  who  had  ceased  long  ago  to  find  the  least 
excitement  in  their  place  of  nightly  resort,  and  were  pleased  to  see 
any  one  so  fresh,  and  so  much  amused.  At  the  end  of  the  first  piece 
he  went  and  strutted  about  the  lobbies  of  the  theatre,  as  if  he  was  in 
a  resort  of  the  highest  fashion.  What  tired  frequenter  of  the  London 
pavd  is  there  that  cannot  remember  having  had  similar  early  delusions, 
and  would  not  call  them  back  again?  Here  was  young  Foker  again, 
like  an  ardent  votary  of  pleasure  as  he  was.  He  was  walking  with 
Granby  Tiptoff,  of  the  Household  Brigade,  Lord  Tiptoff's  brother, 
and  Lord  Colchicum,  Captain  Tiptoff's  uncle,  a  venerable  peer,  who 
had  been  a  man  of  pleasure  since  the  first  French  Revolution.  Foker 
rushed  upon  Pen  with  eagerness,  and  insisted  that  the  latter  should 
come  into  his  private  box,  where  a  lady  with  the  longest  ringlets,  and 
the  fairest  shoulders,  was  seated.  This  was  Miss  Blenkinsop,  the 
eminent  actress  of  high  comedy ;  and  in  the  back  of  the  box,  snoozing 
in  a  wig,  sate  old  Blenkinsop,  her  papa.  He  was  described  in  the 
theatrical  prints  as  the  "  veteran  Blenkinsop  " — "  the  useful  Blenkin- 
sop "— "  that  old  favourite  of  the  public,  Blenkinsop : "  those  parts  in  the 
drama,  which  are  called  the  heavy  fathers,  were  usually  assigned  to  this 
veteran,  who,  indeed,  acted  the  heavy  father  in  public,  as  in  private  life. 


372  PENDENNIS. 

At  this  time,  it  being  about  eleven  o'clock,  Mrs.  Pendennis  wa? 
gone  to  bed  at  Fairoaks,  and  wondering  whether  her  dearest  Arthur 
was  at  rest  after  his  journey.  At  this  time  Laura,  too,  was  awake. 
And  at  this  time  yesterday  night,  as  the  coach  rolled  over  silent 
commons,  where  cottage  windows  twinkled,  and  by  darkling  woods 
under  calm  starlit  skies,  Pen  was  vowing  to   reform   and  to  resist 

temptation,  and  his  heart  was  at  home Meanwhile  the  farce 

was  going  on  very  successfully,  and  Mrs.  Lear}^,  in  a  hussar  jacket  and 
braided  pantaloons,  was  enchanting  the  audience  with  her  archness, 
her  lovely  figure,  and  her  delightful  ballads. 

Pen,  being  new  to  the  town,  would  have  liked  to  listen  to  Mrs. 
Leary ;  but  the  other  people  in  the  box  did  not  care  about  her  song 
or  her  pantaloons,  and  kept  up  an  incessant  chattering.  Tiptoff  knew 
where  her  maillots  came  from.  Colchicum  saw  her  when  she  came 
out  in  '14.  Miss  Blenkinsop  said  she  sang  out  of  all  tune,  to  the  pain 
and  astonishment  of  Pen,  who  thought  that  she  was  as  beautiful  as  an 
angel,  and  that  she  sang  like  a  nightingale;  and  when  Hoppus  came 
on  as  Sir  Harcourt  Featherby,  the  young  man  of  the  piece,  the  gentle- 
men in  the  box  declared  that  Hoppus  was  getting  too  stale,  and  Tiptoff 
was  for  flinging  Miss  Blenkinsop's  bouquet  to  him. 

"  Not  for  the  world,"  cried  the  daughter  of  the  veteran  Blenkinsop  j 
"  Lord  Colchicum  gave  it  to  me." 

Pen  remembered  that  nobleman's  name,  and  with  a  bow  and  a 
blush  said  he  believed  he  had  to  thank  Lord  Colchicum  for  having 
proposed  him  at  the  Polyanthus  Club,  at  the  request  of  his  uncle 
Major  Pendennis. 

"  What,  you're  Wigsby's  nephew,  are  you } "  said  the  peer.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  we  always  call  him  Wigsby."  Pen  blushed  to  hear  his 
venerable  uncle  called  by  such  a  familiar  name.  "  We  balloted  you  in 
last  week,  didn't  we  ?  Yes,  last  Wednesday  night.  Your  uncle  wasn't 
there." 

Here  was  delightful  news  for  Pen !  He  professed  himself  ver>' 
much  obliged  indeed  to  Lord  Colchicum,  and  made  him  a  handsome 
speech  of  thanks,  to  which  the  other  listened,  with  his  double  opera- 
glass  up  to  his  eyes.  Pen  was  full  of  excitement  at  the  idea  of  being  a 
member  of  this  polite  Club. 

"  Don't  be  always  looking  at  that  box,  you  naughty  creature,"  cried 
Miss  Blenkinsop. 

"  She's  a  dev'lish  fine  woman,  that  Mirabel,"  said  Tiptoff;  "  though 
Mirabel  was  a  d — d  fool  to  marry  her." 

"  A  stupid  old  spooney,"  said  the  peer. 

"  Mirabel ! "  cried  out  Pendennis. 

"  Ha !  ha !  "  laughed  out  Harry  Foker.  "  We've  heard  of  her 
before,  haven't  we,  Pen  1 " 


PENDENNIS.  '  273 

It  was  Pen's  first  love.  It  was  Miss  Fotheringay.  The  year  before 
she  had  been  led  to  the  altar  by  Sir  Charles  Mirabel,  G.C.B.,  and 
formerly  envoy  to  the  Court  of  Pumpernickel,  who  had  taken  so  active 
a  part  in  the  negotiations  before  the  Congress  of  Swammerdan,  and 
signed,  on  behalf  of  H.  B.  M.,  the  Peace  of  Pultusk. 

"  Emily  was  always  as  stupid  as  an  owl,"  said  Miss  Blenkinsop. 

"  Eh !  eh !  pas  si  bSte,"  the  old  Peer  said. 

"  Oh,  for  shame ! "  cried  the  actress,  who  did  not  in  the  least  know 
what  he  meant. 

And  Pen  looked  out  and  beheld  his  first  love  once  again — and 
wondered  how  he  ever  could  have  loved  her. 

Thus,  on  the  very  first  night  of  his  arrival  in  London,  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis  found  himself  introduced  to  a  Club,  to  an  actress  of  genteel 
comedy  and  a  heavy  father  of  the  Stage,  and  to  a  dashing  society  of 
jovial  blades,  old  and  young ;  for  my  Lord  Colchicum,  though  stricken 
in  years,  bald  of  head,  and  enfeebled  in  person,  was  still  indefatigable 
in  the  pursuit  of  enjoyment,  and  it  was  the  venerable  Viscount's  boast 
that  he  could  drink  as  much  claret  as  the  youngest  member  of  the 
society  which  he  frequented.  He  lived  with  the  youth  about  town : 
he  gave  them  countless  dinners  at  Richmond  and  Greenwich :  an 
enlightened  patron  of  the  drama  in  all  languages  and  of  the  Terpsi- 
chorean  art,  he  received  dramatic  professors  of  all  nations  at  his 
banquets — English  from  the  Covent  Garden  and  Strand  houses, 
Italians  from  the  Haymarket,  French  from  their  own  pretty  little 
theatre,  or  the  boards  of  the  Opera  where  they  danced.  And  at 
his  villa  on  the  Thames,  this  pillar  of  the  State  gave  sumptuous 
entertainments  to  scores  of  young  men  of  fashion,  who  very  affably 
consorted  with  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  green-room — with  the 
former  chiefly,  for  Viscount  Colchicum  preferred  their  society  as  more 
polished  and  gay  than  that  of  their  male  brethren. 

Pen  went  the  next  day  and  paid  his  entrance  money  at  the  Club, 
which  operation  carried  off  exactly  one-third  of  his  hundred  pounds  ; 
and  took  possession  of  the  edifice,  and  ate  his  luncheon  there  with 
immense  satisfaction.  He  plunged  into  an  easy  chair  in  the  library, 
and  tried  to  read  all  the  magazines.  He  wondered  whether  the 
members  were  looking  at  him,  and  that  they  could  dare  to  keep  on 
their  hats  in  such  fine  rooms.  He  sate  down  and  wrote  a  letter  to 
Fairoaks  on  the  Club  paper,  and  said  what  a  comfort  this  place  would 
be  to  him  after  his  day's  work  was  over.  He  went  over  to  his  uncle's 
lodgings  in  Bury  Street  with  some  considerable  tremor,  and  in  com- 
pliance with  his  mother's  earnest  desire,  that  he  should  instantly 
call  on  Major  Pendennis  ;  and  was  not  a  little  relieved  to  find  that 
the  Major  had  not  yet  returned  to  town.     His  apartments  were  blank. 

18 


274  PENDENNIS. 

Brown  Hollands  covered  his  library-table,  and  bills  and  letters  lay  on 
the  mantel-piece,  grimly  awaiting  the  return  of  their  owner.  The 
Major  was  on  the  continent,  the  landlady  of  the  house  said,  at  Badn- 
Badn,  with  the  Marcus  of  Steyne.  Pen  left  his  card  upon  the  shelf 
with  the  rest.  Fairoaks  was  written  on  it  still.  When  the  Major 
returned  to  London,  which  he  did  in  time  for  the  fogs  of  November, 
after  enjoying  which  he  proposed  to  spend  Christmas  with  some 
friends  in  the  country,  he  found  another  card  of  Arthur's,  on  which 
Lamb  Court,  Temple,  was  engraved,  and  a  note  from  that  young 
gentleman  and  from  his  mother,  stating  that  he  was  come  to  town, 
was  entered  a  member  of  the  L^pper  Temple,  and  was  reading  hard 
for  the  bar. 

Lamb  Court,  Temple  : — where  was  it  ?  Major  Pendennis  remem- 
bered that  some  ladies  of  fashion  used  to  talk  of  dining  with  Mr.  Ayliffe, 
the  barrister,  who  was  in  "  society,"  and  who  lived  there  in  the  King's 
Bench,  of  which  prison  there  was  probably  a  branch  in  the  Temple, 
and  Ayliffe  was  ver>-  likely  an  officer.  Mr.  Deuceace,  Lord  Crabs's 
son,  had  also  lived  there,  he  recollected.  He  dispatched  Morgan  to 
find  out  where  Lamb  Court  was,  and  to  report  upon  the  lodging 
selected  by  Mr.  Arthur.  That  alert  messenger  had  little  difficulty  in 
discovering  'Mr.  Pen's  abode.  Discreet  ^Morgan  had  in  his  time  traced 
people  far  more  difficult  to  find  than  Arthur. 

"  What  sort  of  a  place  is  it,  Morgan  ? "  asked  the  Major  out  of  the 
bed-curtains  in  Bury  Street  the  next  morning,  as  the  valet  was 
arranging  his  toilette  in  the  deep  yellow  London  fog. 

"  I  should  say  rayther  a  shy  place,"  said  Mr.  Morgan.  "  The 
lawyers  lives  there,  and  has  their  names  on  the  doors.  Mr.  Harthur 
lives  three  pair  high,  sir.     Mr.  Warrington  lives  there  too,  sir." 

"  Suffolk  Warringtons  !  I  shouldn't  wonder  :  a  good  family," 
thought  the  Major.  "  The  cadets  of  many  of  our  good  families 
follow  the  robe  as  a  profession.     Comfortable  rooms,  eh  ? " 

"  Honly  saw  the  outside  of  the  door,  sir,  with  Mr.  Warrington's 
name  and  Mr.  Arthurs  painted  up,  and  a  piece  of  paper  with  '  Back 
at  6  ; "  but  I  couldn't  see  no  servant,  sir." 

"  Economical  at  any  rate,"  said  the  Major. 

"  Ver)',  sir.  Three  pair,  sir.  Nasty  black  staircase  as  ever  I  see. 
Wonder  how  a  gentleman  can  live  in  such  a  place." 

"  Pray,  who  taught  you  where  gentlemen  should  or  should  not 
live,  Morgan  ?  Mr.  Arthur,  sir,  is  going  to  study  for  the  bar,  sir,"  the 
Major  said  with  much  dignity  ;  and  closed  the  conversation  and  began 
to  array  himself  in  the  yellow  fog. 

"  Boys  will  be  boys,"  the  mollified  uncle  thought  to  himself.  "  He 
has  written  to  me  a  devilish  good  letter.  Colchicum  says  he  has  had 
him  to  dine,  and  thinks  him  a  gentlemanlike  lad.     His  mother  is  one 


PENDENNIS.  275 

of  the  best  creatures  in  the  world.  If  he  has  sown  his  wild  oats,  and 
will  stick  to  his  business,  he  may  do  well  yet.  Think  of  Charley 
Mirabel,  the  old  fool,  marrying  that  flame  of  his;  that  Fotheringay ! 
He  doesn't  like  to  come  here  till  I  give  him  leave,  and  puts  it  in  a  very 
manly  nice  way.  I  was  deuced  angry  with  him,  after  his  Oxbridge 
escapades — and  showed  it,  too,  when  he  was  here  before — Gad,  111  go 
and  see  him,  hang  me  if  I  don't." 

And  having  ascertained  from  Morgan  that  he  could  reach  the 
Temple  without  much  difficulty,  and  that  a  city  omnibus  would  put 
him  down  at  the  gate,  the  Major  one  day  after  breakfast  at  his  Club- 
not  the  Polyanthus,  whereof  Mr.  Pen  was  just  elected  a  member,  but 
another  Club :  for  the  Major  was  too  wise  to  have  a  nephew  as  a  con- 
stant inmate  of  any  house  where  he  was  in  the  habit  of  passing  his 
time — the  Major  one  day  entered  one  of  those  public  vehicles,  and  bade 
the  conductor  to  put  him  down  at  the  gate  of  the  Upper  Temple. 

When  Major  Pendennis  reached  that  dingy  portal  it  was  about 
twelve  o'clock  in  the  day ;  and  he  was  directed  by  a  civil  personage 
with  a  badge  and  a  white  apron,  through  some  dark  alleys,  and  under 
various  melancholy  archways,  into  courts  each  more  dismal  than  the 
other,  until  finally  he  reached  Lamb  Court.  If  it  was  dark  in  Pall 
Mall,  what  was  it  in  Lamb  Court  ?  Candles  were  burning  in  many  of 
the  rooms  there — in  the  pupil-room  of  Mr.  Hodgeman,  the  special 
pleader,  whose  six  pupils  were  scribbling  declarations  under  the 
tallow ;  in  Sir  Hokey  Walker's  clerk's  room,  where  the  clerk,  a  person 
far  more  gentlemanlike  and  cheerful  in  appearance  than  the  celebrated 
counsel  his  master,  was  conversing  in  a  patronising  manner  with  the 
managing  clerk  of  an  attorney  at  the  door ;  and  in  Curling  the  wig- 
makers  melancholy  shop,  where,  from  behind  the  feeble  glimmer  of 
a  couple  of  lights,  large  Serjeants'  and  judges'  wigs  were  looming 
drearily,  with  the  blank  blocks  looking  at  the  lamp-post  in  the  court. 
Two  little  clerks  were  playing  at  toss-halfpenny  under  that  lamp.  A 
laundress  in  pattens  passed  in  at  one  door,  a  newspaper  boy  issued 
from  another.  A  porter,  whose  white  apron  was  faintly  visible,  paced 
up  and  down.  It  would  be  impossible  to  conceive  a  place  more 
dismal,  and  the  Major  shuddered  to  think  that  any  one  should  select 
such  a  residence.  "  Good  Ged  !  "  he  said,  "  the  poor  boy  mustn't  live 
on  here." 

The  feeble  and  filthy  oil-lamps,  with  which  the  stair-cases  of  the 
Upper  Temple  are  lighted  of  nights,  were  of  course  not  illuminating 
the  stairs  by  day,  and  Major  Pendennis,  having  read  with  difficulty 
his  nephew's  name  under  Mr.  Warrington's  on  the  wall  of  No.  6, 
found  still  greater  difficulty  in  climbing  the  abominable  black  stairs, 
up  the  banisters  of  which,  which  contributed  their  damp  exudations  to 
his  gloves,  he  groped  painfully  until  he  came  to  the  third  story.     A 


276  PENDEXA'IS. 

candle  was  in  the  passage  of  one  of  the  two  sets  of  rooms ;  the  doors 
were  open,  and  the  names  of  Mr.  Warrington  and  Mr.  A.  Pendennis 
were  very  clearly  visible  to  the  Major  as  he  went  in.  An  Irish  char- 
woman, with  a  pail  and  broom,  opened  the  door  for  the  Major. 

"  Is  that  the  beer?"  cried  out  a  great  voice:  "give  us  hold  of  it." 

The  gentleman  who  was  speaking  was  seated  on  a  table,  unshorn 
and  smoking  a  short  pipe  ;  in  a  farther  chair  sate  Pen,  with  a  cigar, 
and  his  legs  near  the  fire.  A  little  boy,  who  acted  as  the  clerk  of  these 
gentlemen,  was  grinning  in  the  Major's  face,  at  the  idea  of  his  being 
mistaken  for  beer.  Here,  upon  the  third  floor,  the  rooms  were  some- 
what lighter,  and  the  Major  could  see  the  place. 

"  Pen,  my  boy,  it's  I — it's  your  uncle,"  he  said,  choking  with  the 
smoke.  But  as  most  young  men  of  fashion  used  the  weed  he  pardoned 
the  practice  easily  enough. 

Mr.  Warrington  got  up  from  the  table,  and  Pen,  in  a  very  per- 
turbed manner,  from  his  chair.  "  Beg  your  pardon  for  mistaking  you," 
said  Warrington,  in  a  frank,  loud  voice.  "Will  you  take  a  cigar, 
sir?  Clear  those  things  off  the  chair,  Pidgeon,  and  pull  it  round  to 
the  fire." 

Pen  flung  his  cigar  into  the  grate  ;  and  was  pleased  with  the  cor- 
diality with  which  his  uncle  shook  him  by  the  hand.  As  soon  as  he 
could  speak  for  the  stairs  and  the  smoke,  the  Major  began  to  ask  Pen 
very  kindly  about  himself  and  about  his  mother ;  for  blood  is  blood, 
and  he  was  pleased  once  more  to  see  the  boy. 

Pen  gave  his  news,  and  then  introduced  Mr.  Warrington^an  old 
Boniface  man — whose  chambers  he  shared. 

The  Major  was  quite  satisfied  when  he  heard  that  Mr.  Warrington 
was  a  younger  son  of  Sir  Miles  W^arrington  of  Suffolk.  He  had  served 
with  an  uncle  of  his  in  India  and  in  New  South  Wales,  years  ago. 

"  Took  a  sheep-farm  there,  sir,  made  a  fortune — better  thing  than 
law  or  soldiering,"  Warrington  said.  "  Think  I  shall  go  there,  too." 
And  here,  the  expected  beer  coming  in,  in  a  tankard  with  a  glass 
bottom,  Mr.  Warrington,  with  a  laugh,  said  he  supposed  the  Major 
would  not  have  any,  and  took  a  long,  deep  draught  himself,  after 
which  he  wiped  his  wrist  across  his  beard  with  great  satisfaction. 
The  young  man  was  perfectly  easy  and  unembarrassed.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  ragged  old  shooting-jacket,  and  had  a  bristly  blue  beard. 
He  was  drinking  beer  like  a  coal-heaver,  and  yet  you  couldn't  but  per- 
ceive that  he  was  a  gentleman. 

When  he  had  sate  for  a  minute  or  two  after  his  draught  he  went 
out  of  the  room,  leaving  it  to  Pen  and  his  uncle,  that  they  might  talk 
over  family  affairs  were  they  so  inclined. 

"  Rough  and  ready,  your  chum  seems,"  the  Major  said.  "  Some- 
what different  from  your  dandy  friends  at  Oxbridge." 


PENDENNIS.  277 

"  Times  are  altered,"  Arthur  replied,  with  a  blush.  "  Warrington 
is  only  just  called,  and  has  no  business,  but  he  knows  law  pretty  well ; 
and  until  I  can  afford  to  read  with  a  pleader,  I  use  his  books  and  get 
his  help." 

"Is  that  one  of  the  books  ?"  the  Major  asked,  with  a  smile.  A 
French  novel  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  Pen's  chair. 

"  This  is  not  a  working  day,  sir,"  the  lad  said.  "  We  were  out 
very  late  at  a  party  last  night — at  Lady  Whiston's,"  Pen  added, 
knowing  his  uncle's  weakness.  "  Everybody  in  town  was  there 
except  you,  sir:  Counts,  Ambassadors,  Turks,  Stars  and  Garters — I 
don't  know  who — it's  all  in  the  paper — and  my  name,  too,"  said  Pen, 
with  great  glee.  "  I  met  an  old  flame  of  mine  there,  sir,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh.  "  You  know  whom  I  mean,  sir, — Lady  Mirabel — to 
whom  I  was  introduced  over  again.  She  shook  hands,  and  was 
gracious  enough.  I  may  thank  you  for  being  out  of  that  scrape, 
sir.  She  presented  me  to  the  husband,  too — an  old  beau  in  a  star 
and  a  blonde  wig.  He  does  not  seem  very  wise.  She  has  asked  me 
to  call  on  her,  sir ;  and  I  may  go  now  without  any  fear  of  losing  my 
heart." 

"  What,  we  have  had  some  new  loves,  have  we  ?"  the  Major  asked, 
in  high  good-humour. 

"  Some  two  or  three,"  Mr.  Pen  said,  laughing.  "  But  1  don't  put 
on  my  grand  serieiix  any  more,  sir.  That  goes  off  after  the  first 
flame." 

"  Very  right,  my  dear  boy.  Flames  and  darts  and  passion,  and 
that  sort  of  thing,  do  very  well  for  a  lad  :  and  you  were  but  a  lad  when 
that  affair  with  the  Fotheringill — Fotheringay — (what's  her  name  ?) 
came  off.  But  a  man  of  the  world  gives  up  those  follies.  You  still 
may  do  very  well.  You  have  been  hit,  but  you  may  recover.  You 
are  heir  to  a  little  independence,  which  everybody  fancies  is  a  doosid 
deal  more.  You  have  a  good  name,  good  wits,  good  manners,  and  a 
good  person — and,  begad !  I  don't  see  why  you  shouldn't  marry  a 
woman  with  money — get  into  Parliament — distinguish  yourself,  and — 
and,  in  fact,  that  sort  of  thing.  Remember,  it's  as  easy  to  marry  a 
rich  woman  as  a  poor  woman :  and  a  devilish  deal  pleasanter  to  sit 
down  to  a  good  dinner  than  to  a  scrag  of  mutton  in  lodgings.  Make 
up  your  mind  to  that.  A  woman  with .  a  good  jointure  is  a  doosid 
deal  easier  a  profession  than  the  law,  let  me  tell  you.  Look  out ;  / 
shall  be  on  the  watch  for  you :  and  I  shall  die  content,  my  boy,  if  I 
can  see  you  with  a  good  lady-hke  wife,  and  a  good  carriage,  and  a 
good  pair  of  horses,  living  in  society,  and  seeing  your  friends,  like  a 
gentleman."  It  was  thus  this  affectionate  uncle  spoke,  and  expounded 
to  Pen  his  simple  philosophy. 

"  What  would   my  mother   and    Laura   say  to   this,  I  wonder  ? " 


278  PENDEXXIS. 

thought  the  lad.  Indeed,  old  Pendennis's  morals  were  not  their 
morals,  nor  was  his  wisdom  theirs. 

This  aft'ecting  conversation  between  uncle  and  nephew  had  scarcely- 
concluded,  when  Warrington  came  out  of  his  bed-room,  no  longer  in 
rags,  but  dressed  like  a  gentleman,  straight  and  tall,  and  perfectly- 
frank  and  good-humoured.  He  did  the  honours  of  his  ragged  sitting- 
room  with  as  much  ease  as  if  it  had  been  the  finest  apartment  in 
London.  And  queer  rooms  they  were  in  which  the  Major  found  his 
nephew.  The  carpet  was  full  of  holes^the  table  stained  with  many- 
circles  of  Warrington's  previous  ale-pots.  There  was  a  small  library 
of  law-books,  books  of  poetry,  and  of  mathematics,  of  which  he 
was  very  fond.  (He  had  been  one  of  the  hardest  livers  and  hardest 
readers  of  his  time  at  Oxbridge,  where  the  name  of  Stunning  War- 
rington was  yet  famous  for  beating  bargemen,  pulling  matches,  winning 
prizes,  and  drinking  milk-punch.)  A  print  of  the  old  college  hung  up 
over  the  mantel-piece,  and  some  battered  volumes  of  Plato,  bearing  its 
well-known  arms,  were  on  the  book-shelves.  There  were  two  easy- 
chairs  ;  a  standing  reading-desk  piled  with  bills ;  a  couple  of  very- 
meagre  briefs  on  a  broken-legged  study-table.  Indeed,  there  was 
scarcely  any  article  of  furniture  that  had  not  been  in  the  wars,  and 
was  not  wounded.  "  Look  here,  sir,  here  is  Pen's  room.  He  is  a 
dandy,  and  has  got  curtains  to  his  bed,  and  wears  shiny  boots,  and 
has  a  silver  dressing-case."  Indeed,  Pen's  room  was  rather  coquet- 
tishly  arranged,  and  a  couple  of  neat  prints  of  opera-dancers,  besides  a 
drawing  of  Fairoaks,  hung  on  the  walls.  In  Warrington's  room  there 
was  scarcely  any  article  of  furniture,  save  a  great  shower-bath,  and  a 
heap  of  books  by  the  bed-side  ;  where  he  lay  upon  straw,  like  Margery- 
Daw,  and  smoked  his  pipe,  and  read  half  through  the  night  his 
favourite  poetry  or  mathematics. 

When  he  had  completed  his  simple  toilette,  Mr.  Warrington  came 
out  of  this  room,  and  proceeded  to  the  cupboard  to  search  for  his 
breakfast. 

"  i\Iight  I  offer  you  a  mutton-chop,  sir  ?  We  cook  'em  ourselves, 
hot  and  hot ;  and  I  am  teaching  Pen  the  first  principles  of  law,  cook- 
ing, and  morality  at  the  same  time.  He's  a  lazy  beggar,  sir,  and  too 
much  of  a  dandy." 

And  so  saying,  Mr.  Warrington  wiped  a  gridiron  with  a  piece  of 
paper,  put  it  on  the  fire,  and  on  it  two  mutton  chops,  and  took  from 
the  cupboard  a  couple  of  plates,  and  some  knives  and  silver  forks, 
and  castors. 

''Say  but  a  word.  Major  Pendennis,"  he  said;  "there's  another 
chop  in  the  cupboard,  or  Pidgeon  shall  go  out  and  get  you  anything 
you  like." 

Major  Pendennis  sate  in  wonder  and  amusement,  but  he  said  he 


PENDENNIS.  379 

had  just  breakfasted,  and  wouldn't  have  any  lunch.  So  Warrington 
cooked  the  chops,  and  popped  them  hissing  hot  upon  the  plates. 

Pen  fell  to  at  his  chop  with  a  good  appetite,  after  looking  up  at  his 
uncle,  and  seeing  that  gentleman  was  still  in  good-humour. 

"  You  see,  sir,"  Warrington  said,  "  Mrs.  Flans.gan  isn't  here  to 
do  'em,  and  we  can't  employ  the  boy,  for  the  little  beggar  is  all  day 
occupied  cleaning  Pen's  boots.  And  now  for  another  swig  at  the  beer. 
Pen  drinks  tea ;  it's  only  fit  for  old  women." 

"  And  so  you  were  at  Lady  Whiston's  last  night  ?"  the  Major  said, 
not  in  truth  knowing  what  observation  to  make  to  this  rough 
diamond. 

"  I  at  Lady  Whiston's  !  not  such  a  flat,  sir.  I  don't  care  for  female 
society.  In  fact  it  bores  me.  I  spent  my  evening  philosophically  at 
the  Back  Kitchen." 

"  The  Back  Kitchen  ?  indeed !  "  said  the  Major. 

"  I  see  you  don't  know  what  it  means,"  Warrington  said.  "  Ask 
Pen.  He  was  there  after  Lady  Whiston's.  Tell  Major  Pendennis 
about  the  Back  Kitchen,  Pen — don't  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

So  Pen  said  it  was  a  little  eccentric  society  of  men  of  letters  and 
men  about  town,  to  which  he  had  been  presented ;  and  the  Major 
began  to  think  that  the  young  fellow  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  the 
woild  since  his  arrival  in  London. 


28o  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE   KNIGHTS   OF   THE  TEMPLE. 

COLLEGES,  schools,  and  inns  of  court,  still  have  some  respect  for 
antiquity,  and  maintain  a  great  number  of  the  customs  and  in- 
stitutions of  our  ancestors,  with  which  those  persons  who  do  not 
particularly  regard  their  forefathers,  or  perhaps  are  not  very  well 
acquainted  with  them,  have  long  since  done  away.  A  well-ordained 
workhouse  or  prison  is  much  better  provided  with  the  appliances  of 
health,  comfort,  and  cleanliness  than  a  respectable  Foundation  School, 
a  venerable  College,  or  a  learned  Inn.  In  the  latter  place  of  residence 
men  are  contented  to  sleep  in  ding}-  closets,  and  to  pay  for  the  sitting- 
room  and  the  cupboard,  which  is  their  dormitorj-,  the  price  of  a  good 
villa  and  garden  in  the  suburbs,  or  of  a  roomy  house  in  the  neglected 
squares  of  the  town.  The  poorest  mechanic  in  Spitalfields  has  a 
cistern  and  an  unbounded  supply  of  water  at  his  command ;  but  the 
gentlemen  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  and  the  gentlemen  of  the  universities, 
have  their  supply  of  this  cosmetic  fetched  in  jugs  by  laundresses  and 
bedmakers,  and  live  in  ab'^des  which  were  erected  long  before  the 
custom  of  cleanliness  and  decency  obtained  among  us.  There  are 
individuals  still  alive  who  sneer  at  the  people  and  speak  of  them  with 
epithets  of  scorn.  Gentlemen,  there  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  your 
ancestors  were  the  Great  Unwashed :  and  in  the  Temple  especially,  it 
is  pretty  certain,  that  only  under  the  greatest  difficulties  and  restric- 
tions, the  virtue  which  has  been  pronounced  to  be  next  to  godliness 
could  have  been  practised  at  all. 

Old  Grump,  of  the  Norfolk  Circuit,  who  had  lived  for  more  than 
thirty  years  in  the  chambers  under  those  occupied  by  Warrington  and 
Pendennis,  and  who  used  to  be  awakened  by  the  roaring  of  the  shower- 
baths  which  those  gentlemen  had  erected  in  their  apartments, — part 
of  the  contents  of  which  occasionally  trickled  through  the  roof  into 
Mr.  Grump's  room, — declared  that  the  practice  was  an  absurd,  new- 
fangled, dandyfied  folly,  and  daily  cursed  the  laundress  who  slopped 
the  staircase  by  which  he  had  to  pass.  Grump,  now  much  more  than 
half  a  century  old,  had  indeed  never  used  the  lu.xury  in  question.  He 
had  done  without  w-ater  verj-  well,  and  so  had  our  fathers  before  him. 
Of  all  those  knights  and  baronets,  lords  and  gentlemen  bearing  arms, 
whose  escutcheons  are  painted  upon  the  walls  of  the  famous  hall  of 


PENDENNIS.  281 

the  Upper  Temple,  was  there  no  philanthropist  good-natured  enough 
to  devise  a  set  of  Hummums  for  the  benefit  of  the  lawyers,  his  fellows 
and  successors  ?  The  Temple  historian  makes  no  mention  of  such  a 
scheme.  There  is  Pump  Court  and  Fountain  Court,  with  their  hydraulic 
apparatus,  but  one  never  heard  of  a  bencher  disporting  in  the  fountain  ; 
and  can't  but  think  how  many  a  counsel  learned  in  the  law  of  old  days 
might  have  benefited  by  the  pump. 

Nevertheless,  those  venerable  Inns  which  have  the  Lamb  and  Flag 
and  the  Winged  Horse  for  their  ensigns,  have  attractions  for  persons 
who  inhabit  them,  and  a  share  of  rough  comforts  and  freedom,  which 
men  always  remember  with  pleasure.  I  don't  know  whether  the 
student  of  law  permits  himself  the  refreshment  of  enthusiasm,  or 
indulges  in  poetical  reminiscences  as  he  passes  by  historical  chambers, 
and  says,  "Yonder  Eldon  lived — upon  this  site  Coke  mused  upon 
Lyttleton — here  Chitty  toiled — here  Barnwell  and  Alderson  joined  in 
their  famous  labours — here  Byles  composed  his  great  work  upon  bills, 
and  Smith  compiled  his  immortal  leading  cases — here  Gustavus  still 
toils,  with  Solomon  to  aid  him :  "  but  the  man  of  letters  can't  but  love 
the  place  which  has  been  inhabited  by  so  many  of  his  brethren,  or 
peopled  by  their  creations  as  real  to  us  at  this  day  as  the  authors 
whose  children  they  were — and  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  walking  in  the 
Temple  Garden,  and  discoursing  with  Mr.  Spectator  about  the  beau- 
ties in  hoops  and  patches  who  are  sauntering  over  the  grass,  is  just 
as  lively  a  figure  to  me  as  old  Samuel  Johnson  rolling  through  the 
fog  with  the  Scotch  gentleman  at  his  heels  on  their  way  to  Dr.  Gold- 
smith's chambers  in  Brick  Court ;  or  Harry  Fielding,  with  inked  ruffles 
and  a  wet  towel  round  his  head,  dashing  off  articles  at  midnight  for  the 
Covent  Garden  Journal,  while  the  printer's  boy  is  asleep  in  the  passage. 

If  we  could  but  get  the  history  of  a  single  day  as  it  passed  in  any 
one  of  those  four-storied  houses  in  the  dingy  court  where  our  friends 
Pen  and  Warrington  dwelt,  some  Temple  Asmodeus  might  furnish  us 
with  a  queer  volume.  There  may  be  a  great  parliamentary  counsel  on 
the  ground-floor,  who  drives  oiT  to  Belgravia  at  dinner-time,  when  his 
clerk,  too,  becomes  a  gentleman,  and  goes  away  to  entertain  his  friends, 
and  to  take  his  pleasure.  But  a  short  time  since  he  was  hungry  and 
briefless  in  some  garret  of  the  Inn;  lived  by  stealthy  literature;  hoped, 
and  waited,  and  sickened,  and  no  chents  came;  exhausted  his  own 
means  and  his  friends'  kindness  ;  had  to  remonstrate  humbly  with 
duns,  and  to  implore  the  patience  of  poor  creditors.  Ruin  seemed  to 
be  staring  him  in  the  face,  when,  behold,  a  turn  of  the  wheel  of 
fortune,  and  the  lucky  wretch  in  possession  of  one  of  those  prodigious 
prizes  which  are  sometimes  drawn  in  the  great  lottery  of  the  Bar. 
Many  a  better  lawyer  than  himself  does  not  make  a  fifth  part  of  the 
income  of  his  clerk,  who,  a  few  months  since,  could  scarcely  get  credit 


282  PENDENNIS. 

for  blacking  for  his  master's  unpaid  boots.  On  the  first-floor,  perhaps, 
you  will  have  a  venerable  man  v/hose  name  is  famous,  who  has  lived 
for  half  a  century  in  the  Inn,  whose  brains  are  full  of  books,  and  whose 
shelves  are  stored  with  classical  and  legal  lore.  He  has  lived  alone  all 
these  fifty  years,  alone  and  for  himself,  amassing  learning,  and  com- 
piling a  fortune.  He  comes  home  now  at  night  only  from  the  club, 
where  he  has  been  dining  freely,  to  the  lonely  chambers  where  he  lives 
a  godless  old  recluse.  When  he  dies,  his  Inn  will  erect  a  tablet  to  his 
honour,  and  his  heirs  burn  a  part  of  his  library.  Would  you  like  to 
have  such  a  prospect  for  your  old  age,  to  store  up  learning  and  money, 
and  end  so  ?  But  we  must  not  linger  too  long  by  Mr.  Doomsday's 
door.  Worthy  Mr.  Grump  lives  over  him,  who  is  also  an  ancient 
inhabitant  of  the  Inn,  and  who,  when  Doomsday  comes  home  to  read 
Catullus,  is  sitting  down  with  three  steady  seniors  of  his  standing  to 
a  steady  rubber  at  whist,  after  a  dinner  at  which  they  have  consumed 
their  three  steady  bottles  of  Port.  You  may  see  the  old  boys  asleep  at 
the  Temple  Church  of  a  Sunday.  Attornies  seldom  trouble  them,  and 
they  have  small  fortunes  of  their  own.  On  the  other  side  of  the  third 
landing,  where  Pen  and  Warrington  live,  till  long  after  midnight,  sits 
Mr.  Paley,  who  took  the  highest  honours,  and  who  is  a  fellow  of  his 
college,  who  will  sit  and  read  and  note  cases  until  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning;  who  will  rise  at  seven  and  be  at  the  pleader's  chambers  as 
soon  as  they  are  open,  where  he  will  work  until  an  hour  before  dinner- 
time ;  who  will  come  home  from  Hall  and  read  and  note  cases  again 
until  dawn  next  day,  when  perhaps  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  and  his 
friend  Mr.  Warrington  are  returning  from  some  of  their  wild  expedi- 
tions. How  differently  employed  Mr.  Paley  has  been!  He  has  not 
been  throwing  himself  away:  he  has  only  been  bringing  a  great 
intellect  laboriously  down  to  the  comprehension  of  a  mean  subject, 
and  in  his  fierce  grasp  of  that,  resolutely  excluding  from  his  mind  all 
higher  thoughts,  all  better  things,  all  the  wisdom  of  philosophers  and 
historians,  all  the  thoughts  of  poets ;  all  wit,  fancy,  reflection,  art, 
love,  truth  altogether — so  that  he  may  master  that  enormous  legend 
of  the  law,  which  he  proposes  to  gain  his  livelihood  by  expounding. 
Warrington  and  Paley  had  been  competitors  for  university  honours  in- 
former days,  and  had  run  each  other  hard ;  and  everybody  said  now 
that  the  former  was  wasting  his  time  and  energies,  whilst  all  people 
praised  Paley  for  his  industry.  There  may  be  doubts,  however,  as  to 
which  was  using  his  time  best.  The  one  could  afford  time  to  think, 
and  the  other  never  could.  The  one  could  have  sympathies  and  do 
kindnesses ;  and  the  other  must  needs  be  always  selfish.  He  could 
not  cultivate  a  friendship  or  do  a  charity,  or  admire  a  work  of  genius, 
or  kindle  at  the  sight  of  beauty  or  the  sound  of  a  sweet  song — he  had 
no  time,  and  no  eyes  for  anything  but  his  law-books.     All  was  dark 


PENDENNIS.  283 

outside  his  reading-lamp.  Love,  and  Nature,  and  Art,  (which  is  the 
expression  of  our  praise  and  sense  of  the  beautiful  world  of  God),  were 
shut  out  from  him.  And  as  he  turned  off  his  lonely  lamp  at  night,  he 
never  thought  but  that  he  had  spent  the  day  profitably,  and  went  to 
sleep  alike  tliankless  and  remorseless.  But  he  shuddered  when  he 
met  his  old  companion  Wamngton  on  the  stairs,  and  shunned  him  as 
one  that  was  doomed  to  perdition. 

It  may  have  been  the  sight  of  that  cadaverous  ambition  and  self- 
complacent  meanness,  which  showed  itself  in  Paley's  yellow  face,  and 
twinkled  in  his  narrow  eyes,  or  it  may  have  been  a  natural  appetite 
for  pleasure  and  joviality,  of  which  it  must  be  confessed  Mr.  Pen  was 
exceedingly  fond,  which  deterred  that  luckless  youth  from  pursuing 
his  designs  upon  the  Bench  or  the  Woolsack  v.dth  the  ardour,  or  rather 
steadiness,  which  is  requisite  in  gentlemen  who  would  climb  to  those 
seats  of  honour.  He  enjoyed  the  Temple  life  with  a  great  deal  of 
relish  :  his  worthy  relatives  thought  he  was  reading  as  became  a 
regular  student  :  and  his  uncle  wrote  home  congratulatory  letters  to 
the  kind  widow  at  Fairoaks,  announcing  that  the  lad  had  sown  his 
wild  oats,  and  was  becoming  quite  steady.  The  truth  is,  that  it  was 
a  new  sort  of  excitement  to  Pen,  the  life  in  which  he  was  now  engaged, 
and  having  given  up  some  of  the  dandyfied  pretensions  and  fine- 
gentleman  airs  which  he  had  contracted  among  his  aristocratic  college 
acquaintances,  of  whom  he  now  saw  but  little,  the  rough  pleasures  and 
amusements  of  a  London  bachelor  were  very  novel  and  agreeable  to 
him,  and  he  enjoyed  them  all.  Time  was  he  would  have  envied  the 
dandies  their  fine  .horses  in  Rotten  Row,  but  he  was  contented  now 
to  walk  in  the  Park  and  look  at  them.  He  was  too  young  to  succeed 
in  London  society  without  a  better  name  and  a  larger  fortune  than  he 
had,  and  too  lazy  to  get  on  without  these  adjuncts.  Old  Pendennis 
fondly  thought  he  was  busied  with  law  because  he  neglected  the 
social  advantages  presented  to  him,  and,  having  been  at  half  a  dozen 
balls  and  evening-parties,  retreated  before  their  dullness  and  same- 
ness ;  and  whenever  anybody  made  inquiries  of  the  worthy  Major 
about  his  nephew,  the  old  gentleman  said  the  young  rascal  was 
reformed,  and  could  not  be  got  away  from  his  books.  But  the  Major 
would  have  been  almost  as  much  horrified  as  Mr.  Paley  was,  had  he 
known  what  was  Mr.  Pen's  real  course  of  life,  and  how  much  pleasure 
entered  into  his  law  studies. 

A  long  morning's  reading,  a  walk  in  the  Park,  a  pull  on  the  river, 
a  stretch  up  the  hill  to  Hampstead,  and  a  modest  tavern  dinner  ;  a 
bachelor  night  passed  here  or  there,  in  joviality,  not  vice  (for  Arthur 
Pendennis  admired  women  so  heartily  that  he  could  never  bear  the 
society  of  any  of  them  that  were  not,  in  his  fancy  at  least,  good  and 
pure)  ;  a  quiet  evening  at  home,  alone  with  a  friend  and  a  pipe  or 


284  ■    PENDENNIS. 

two,  and  a  humble  potation  of  British  spirits,  whereof  Mrs.  Flanagan, 
the  laundress,  invariably  tested  the  quality  ; — these  were  our  young 
gentleman's  pursuits,  and  it  must  be  owned  that  his  life  was  not 
unpleasant.  In  term-time,  Mr.  Pen  showed  a  most  praiseworthy 
regularity  in  performing  one  part  of  the  law-student's  course  of  duty, 
and  eating  his  dinners  in  Hall.  Indeed,  that  Hall  of  the  Upper 
Temple  is  a  sight  not  uninteresting,  and  with  the  exception  of  some 
trifling  improvements  and  anachronisms  which  have  been  introduced 
into  the  practice  there,  a  man  may  sit  down  ai)d  fancy  that  he  joins 
in  a  meal  of  the  seventeenth  centur>'.  The  bar  have  their  messes, 
the  students  their  tables  apart ;  the  benchers  sit  at  the  high  table  on 
the  raised  platform,  surrounded  by  pictures  of  judges  of  the  law  and 
portraits  of  royal  personages  who  have  honoured  its  festivities  with 
their  presence  and  patronage.  Pen  looked  about,  on  his  first  intro- 
duction, not  a  little  amused  with  the  scene  which  he  witnessed. 
Among  his  comrades  of  the  student  class  there  were  gentlemen  of  all 
ages,  from  sixty  to  seventeen ;  stout  grey-headed  attornies  who  v.ere 
proceeding  to  take  the  superior  dignity, — dandies  and  men  about  town 
who  wished  for  some  reason  to  be  barristers  of  seven  years'  standing, 
— swarthy,  black-eyed  natives  of  the  Colonies,  who  came  to  be  called 
here  before  they  practised  in  their  own  islands, — and  many  gentlemen 
of  the  Irish  nation,  who  make  a  sojourn  in  Middle  Temple  Lane  before 
they  return  to  the  green  country  of  their  birth.  There  were  little  squads 
of  reading  students  who  talked  law  all  dinner-time  ;  there  were  rowing 
men,  whose  discourse  was  of  sculling  matches,  the  Red  House,  Vaux- 
haU,  and  the  Opera  ;  there  were  others  great  in  politics,  and  orators 
of  the  students'  debating  clubs  ;  with  all  of  which  sets,  except  the  first, 
whose  talk  was  an  almost  unknown  and  a  quite  uninteresting  language 
to  him,  Mr.  Pen  made  a  gradual  acquaintance,  and  had  many  points 
of  sympathy. 

The  ancient  and  liberal  Inn  of  the  Upper  Temple  provides  in  its 
hall,  and  for  a  most  moderate  price,  an  excellent  wholesome  dinner 
of  soup,  meat,  tarts,  and  port  wine  or  sherry,  for  the  barristers  and 
students  who  attend  that  place  of  refection.  The  parties  are  arranged 
in  messes  of  four,  each  of  which  quartets  has  its  piece  of  beef  or  leg 
of  mutton,  its  sufficient  apple-pie  and  its  bottle  of  wine.  But  the 
honest  habitues  of  the  hall,  amongst  the  lower  rank  of  students,  who 
have  a  taste  for  good  living,  have  many  harmless  arts  by  which  they 
improve  their  banquet,  and  innocent  '"  dodges  "  (if  we  may  be  per- 
mitted to  use  an  excellent  phrase  that  has  become  vernacular  since 
the  appearance  of  the  last  dictionaries)  by  which  they  strive  to  attain 
for  themselves  more  delicate  food  than  the  common  every-day  roast- 
meat  of  the  students'  tables. 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Lowton,  one  of  these  Temple  gourmands. 


PENDENNIS.  285 

"  Wait  a  bit,"  said  Mr.  Lowton  tugging  at  Pen's  gown — "  the  tables 
are  very  full,  and  there's  only  three  benchers  to  eat  ten  side  dishes — 
if  we  wait,  perhaps  we  shall  get  something  from  their  table."  And 
Pen  looked  with  some  amusement,  as  did  Mr.  Lowton  with  eyes  of 
fond  desire,  towards  the  benchers'  high  table,  where  three  old  gentle- 
men were  standing  up  before  a  dozen  silver  dish-covers,  while  the 
clerk  was  quavering  out  a  grace. 

Lowton  was  great  in  the  conduct  of  the  dinner.  His  aim  was  to 
manage  so  as  to  be  the  first,  or  captain  of  the  mess,  and  to  secure 
for  himself  the  thirteenth  glass  of  the  bottle  of  port  wine.  Thus  he 
would  have  the  command  of  the  joint,  on  which  he  operated  his 
favourite  cuts,  and  made  rapid  dexterous  appropriations  of  gravy, 
which  amused  Pen  infinitely.  Poor  Jack  Lowton  !  thy  pleasures  in 
life  were  very  harmless ;  an  eager  epicure,  thy  desires  did  not  go 
beyond  eighteen-pence. 

Pen  was  somewhat  older  than  many  of  his  fellow-students,  and 
there  was  that  about  his  style  and  appearance  which,  as  we  have  said, 
was  rather  haughty  and  impertinent,  that  stamped  him  as  a  man  of 
ton — very  unlike  those  pale  students  who  were  talking  law  to  one 
another,  and  those  ferocious  dandies,  in  rowing  shirts  and  astonishing 
pins  and  waistcoats,  who  represented  the  idle  part  of  the  little  com- 
munity. The  humble  and  good-natured  Lowton  had  felt  attracted  by 
Pen's  superior  looks  and  presence — and  had  made  acquaintance  with 
him  at  the  mess  by  opening  the  conversation. 

"  This  is  boiled-beef  day,  I  believe,  sir,"  said  Lowton  to  Pen. 
"  Upon  my  word,  sir,  I'm  not  aware,"  said  Pen,  hardly  able  to  contain 
his  laughter,   but  added,  "  I'm  a  stranger ;  this  is  my  first  term;"  on 
which  Lowton  began  to  point  out  to  him  the  notabilities  in  the  Hall. 

"  That's  Boosey  the  bencher,  the  bald  one  sitting  under  the  picture 
and  'aving  soup ;  I  wonder  whether  it's  turtle  ?  They  often  'ave  turtle. 
Next  is  Balls,  the  King's  Counsel,  and  Swettenham — Hodge  and 
Swettenham,  you  know.  That's  old  Grump,  the  senior  of  the  bar ; 
they  say  he's  dined  here  forty  years.  They  often  send  'em  down  their 
fish  from  the  benchers  to  the  senior  table.  Do  you  see  those  four 
fellows  seated  opposite  us  ?  They  are  regular  swells — tip-top  fellows, 
I  can  tell  you — Mr.  Trail,  the  Bishop  of  Ealing's  son.  Honourable 
Fred  Ringwood,  Lord  Cinqbars'  brother,  you  know.  He'll  have  a 
good  place,  I  bet  any  money :  and  Bob  Suckling,  who's  always  with 
him — a  high  fellow  too.  Ha  !  ha  !"  Here  Lowton  burst  into  a  laugh. 
"What  is  it?"  said  Pen,  still  amused. 

"  I  say,  I  'd  like  to  mess  with  those  chaps,"  Lowton  said,  winking 
his  eye  knowingly,  and  pouring  out  his  glass  of  wine. 
"  And  why  ? "  asked  Pen. 
"Why!  they  don't  come  down  here  to  dine,  you  know,  they  only 


286  PENDENNIS. 

make  believe  to  dine.  They  dine  here,  Law  bless  you !  They  go  to 
some  of  the  swell  clubs,  or  else  to  some  giand  dinner  party.  You  see 
their  names  in  the  'Morning  Post'  at  all  the  fine  parties  in  London. 
Why,  I  bet  anything  that  Ringwood  has  his  cab,  or  Trail  his  brougham 
(he's  a  devil  of  a  fellow,  and  makes  the  bishop's  money  spin,  I  can  tell 
you)  at  the  corner  of  Essex  Street  at  this  minute.  They  dine  !  They 
won't  dine  these  two  hours,  I  dare  say." 

"  But  why  should  you  like  to  mess  with  them,  if  they  don't  eat  any 
dinner  ? "  Pen  asked,  still  puzzled.     "  There's  plenty,  isn't  there  ? " 

"  How  green  you  are,"  said  Lowton.  "  Excuse  me,  but  you  are 
green.  They  don't  drink  any  wine,  don't  you  see,  and  a  fellow  gets 
the  bottle  to  himself  if  he  likes  it  when  he  messes  with  those  three 
chaps.     That's  why  Corkoran  got  in  with  'em." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Lowton,  I  see  you  are  a  sly  fellow,"  Pen  said,  delighted 
with  his  acquaintance :  on  which  the  other  modestly  replied,  that  he 
had  lived  in  London  the  better  part  of  his  life,  and  of  course  had  his 
eyes  about  him ;  and  went  on  with  his  catalogue  to  Pen. 

"  There's  a  lot  of  Irish  here,"  he  said:  "  that  Corkoran's  one,  and 
I  can't  say  I  like  him.  You  see  that  handsome  chap  with  the  blue 
neckcloth,  and  pink  shirt,  and  yellow  waistcoat,  that's  another;  that's 
IMolloy  Maloney,  of  Ballymaloney,  and  nephew  to  Major-General  Sir 
Hector  O'Dowd — he,  he  !"  Lowton  said,  trj'ing  to  imitate  the  Hibernian 
accent.  "  He's  always  bragging  about  his  uncle;  and  came  into  Hall 
in  silver-striped  trowsers  the  day  he  had  been  presented.  That  other 
near  him,  with  the  long  black  hair,  is  a  tremendous  rebel.  By  Jove, 
sir,  to  hear  him  at  the  Forum  it  makes  your  blood  freeze ;  and  the  next 
is  an  Irishman,  too,  Jack  Finucane,  reporter  of  a  newspaper.  They 
all  stick  together,  those  Irish.  It's  your  turn  to  fill  your  glass.  What .'' 
you  won't  have  any  port  ?  Don't  like  port  with  your  dinner  ?  Here's 
your  health."  And  this  worthy  man  found  himself  not  the  less  attached 
to  Pendennis  because  the  latter  disliked  port  wine  at  dinner. 

It  was  while  Pen  was  taking  his  share  of  one  of  these  dinners  with 
his  acquaintance  Lowton  as  the  captain  of  his  mess,  that  there  came 
to  join  them  a  gentleman  in  a  barristers  gown,  who  could  not  find  a 
seat,  as  it  appeared,  amongst  the  persons  of  his  own  degree,  and  who 
strode  over  the  table  and  took  his  place  on  the  bench  where  Pen  sate. 
He  was  dressed  in  old  clothes  and  a  faded  gown,  which  hung  behind 
him,  and  he  wore  a  shirt  which,  though  clean,  was  extremely  ragged, 
and  very  different  to  the  magnificent  pink  raiment  of  Mr.  Molloy 
Maloney,  who  occupied  a  commanding  position  in  the  next  mess.  In 
order  to  notify  their  appearance  at  dinner,  it  is  the  custom  of  the 
gentlemen  who  eat  in  the  Upper  Temple  Hall  to  write  down  their 
names  upon  slips  of  paper,  which  are  provided  for  that  purpose,  with 
a  pencil  for  each   mess.     Lowton  wrote  his  name   first,  then  came 


PENDENNIS.  287 

Arthur  Pendennis,  and  the  next  was  that  of  the  gentleman  in  the  old 
clothes.  He  smiled  when  he  saw  Pen's  name,  and  looked  at  him. 
"  We  ought  to  know  each  other,"  he  said.  '■  We're  both  Boniface 
men  ;  my  name's  Warrington." 

"  Are  you  St Warrington  ?  "Pen  said,  delighted  to  see  this  hero. 

Warrington  laughed — "  Stunning  Warrington — yes,"  he  said.  "  I 
recollect  you  in  your  freshman's  term.  But  you  appear  to  have  quite 
cut  me  out." 

"  The  college  talks  about  you  still,"  said  Pen,  who  had  a  generous 
admiration  for  talent  and  pluck.  "  The  bargeman  you  thrashed,  Bill 
Simes,  don't  you  remember,  wants  you  up  again  at  Oxbridge.  The 
Miss  Notleys,  the  haberdashers " 

"Hush!"  said  Warrington — "glad  to  make  your  acquaintance, 
Pendennis.     Heard  a  good  deal  about  you." 

The  young  men  were  friends  immediately,  and  at  once  deep  in 
college-talk.  And  Pen,  who  had  been  acting  rather  the  fine  gentle- 
man on  a  previous  day,  when  he  pretended  to  Lowton  that  he  could 
not  drink  port  wine  at  dinner,  seeing  Warrington  take  his  share  with  a 
great  deal  of  gusto,  did  not  scruple  about  helping  himself  any  more, 
rather  to  the  disappointment  of  honest  Lowton.  When  the  dinner  was 
over,  Warrington  asked  Arthur  where  he  was  going. 

"  I  thought  of  going  home  to  dress,  and  hear  Grisi  in  Norma," 
Pen  said. 

"  Are  you  going  to  meet  anybody  there  ?"  he  asked. 

Pen  said,  "  No — only  to  hear  the  music,  of  which  he  was  very  fond." 

"  You  had  much  better  come  home  and  smoke  a  pipe  with  me," 
said  Warrington, — "  a  very  short  one.  Come,  I  live  close  by  in 
Lamb  Court,  and  we'll  talk  over  Boniface  and  old  times." 

They  went  away ;  Lowton  sighed  after  them.  He  knew  that 
Warrington  was  a  baronet's  son,  and  he  looked  up  with  simple  rever- 
ence to  all  the  aristocracy.  Pen  and  Warrington  became  sworn  friends 
from  that  night.  Warrington's  cheerfulness  and  jovial  temper,  his 
good  sense,  his  rough  welcome,  and  his  never-failing  pipe  of  tobacco, 
charmed  Pen,  who  found  it  more  pleasant  to  dive  into  shilling  taverns 
with  him,  than  to  dine  in  solitary  state  amongst  the  silent  and  polite 
frequenters  of  the  Polyanthus. 

Ere  long  Pen  gave  up  his  lodgings  in  St.  James's,  to  which  he  had 
migrated  on  quitting  his  hotel,  and  found  it  was  much  more  economical 
to  take  up  his  abode  with  Warrington  in  Lamb  Court,  and  furnish  and 
occupy  his  friend's  vacant  room  there.  For  it  must  be  said  of  Pen, 
that  no  man  was  more  easily  led  than  he  to  do  a  thing,  when  it  was 
a  novelty,  or  when  he  had  a  mind  to  it.  And  Pidgeon,  the  youth, 
and  Flanagan,  the  laundress,  divided  their  allegiance  now  between 
Warrington  and  Pen. 


2.88  PENDENNJS. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

OLD    AND    NEW    ACQUAINTANCES. 

ELATED  with  the  idea  of  seeing  hfe,  Pen  went  into  a  hundred 
queer  London  haunts.  He  hked  to  think  he  was  consorting 
with  all  sorts  of  men — so  he  beheld  coalheavers  in  their  taprooms ; 
boxers  in  their  inn-parlours  ;  honest  citizens  disporting  in  the  suburbs  or 
on  the  river ;  and  he  would  have  liked  to  hob-and-nob  with  celebrated 
pickpockets,  or  drink  a  pot  of  ale  with  a  company  of  burglars  and 
cracksmen,  had  chance  afforded  him  an  opportunity  of  making  the 
acquaintance  of  this  class  of  society.  It  was  good  to  see  the  gravity 
with  which  Warrington  listened  to  the  Tutbury  Pet  or  the  Brighton 
Stunner  at  the  Champion's  Arms,  and  behold  the  interest  which  he 
took  in  the  coalheaving  company  assembled  at  the  Fox-under-the- 
Hill.  His  acquaintance  with  the  public-houses  of  the  metropolis  and 
its  neighbourhood,  and  with  the  frequenters  of  their  various  parlours, 
was  prodigious.  He  w-as  the  personal  friend  of  the  landlord  and  land- 
lady, and  welcome  to  the  bar  as  to  the  club-room.  He  liked  their 
society,  he  said,  better  than  that  of  his  own  class,  whose  manners 
annoyed  him,  and  whose  conversation  bored  him.  "  In  society,"'  he 
used  to  say,  "  everybody  is  the  same,  wears  the  same  dress,  eats  and 
drinks,  and  says  the  same  things ;  one  young  dandy  at  the  club  talks 
and  looks  just  like  another,  one  Miss  at  a  ball  exactly  resembles 
another,  whereas  there's  character  here.  I  like  to  talk  with  the 
strongest  man  in  England,  or  the  man  who  can  drink  the  most  beer 
in  England,  or  with  that  tremendous  republican  of  a  hatter,  who  thinks 
Thistlewood  was  the  greatest  character  in  history.  I  like  gin-and- 
water  better  than  claret.  I  like  a  sanded  floor  in  Camaby  Market 
better  than  a  chalked  one  in  Mayfair.  I  prefer  Snobs,  I  own  it."' 
Indeed,  this  gentleman  was  a  social  republican ;  and  it  never  entered 
his  head  while  conversing  with  Jack  and  Tom  that  he  was  in  any 
respect  their  better  ;  although,  perhaps,  the  deference  which  they  paid 
him  might  secretly  please  him. 

Pen  followed  him  then  to  these  various  resorts  of  men  with  great 
glee  and  assiduity.  But  he  was  considerably  younger,  and  therefore 
much  more  pompous  and  stately  than  Warrington ;  in  fact,  a  young 
prince  in  disguise,  visiting  the  poor  of  his  fathers  kingdom.     They 


PENDENNIS.  289 

respected  him  as  a  high  chap,  a  fine  fellow,  a  regular  young  swell.  He 
had  somehow  about  him  an  air  of  imperious  good-humour,  and  a 
royal  frankness  and  majesty,  although  he  was  only  heir  apparent  to 
twopence-halfpenny,  and  but  one-  in  descent  from  a  gallipot.  If  these 
positions  are  made  for  us,  we  acquiesce  in  them  very  easily;  and  are 
always  pretty  ready  to  assume  a  superiority  over  those  who  are  as  good 
as  ourselves.  Pen's  condescension  at  this  time  of  his  life  was  a  fine 
thing  to  witness.  Amongst  men  of  ability  this  assumption  and  imper- 
tinence passes  off  with  extreme  youth  :  but  it  is  curious  to  watch  the 
conceit  of  a  generous  and  clever  lad — there  is  something  almost  touch- 
ing in  that  early  exhibition  of  simplicity  and  folly. 

So,  after  reading  pretty  hard  of  a  morning,  and,  I  fear,  not  law 
merely,  but  politics  and  general  history  and  literature,  which  were  as 
necessary  for  the  advancement  and  instruction  of  a  young  man  as  mere 
dry  law,  after  applying  with  tolerable  assiduity  to  letters,  to  reviews,  to 
elemental  books  of  law,  and,  above  all,  to  the  newspaper,  until  the 
hour  of  dinner  was  drawing  nigh,  these  young  gentlemen  would  sally 
out  upon  the  town  with  great  spirits  and  appetite,  and  bent  upon 
enjoying  a  merry  night  as  they  had  passed  a  pleasant  forenoon.  It 
was  a  jovial  time,  that  of  four-and-twenty,  when  every  muscle  of  mind 
and  body  was  in  healthy  action,  when  the  world  was  new  as  yet,  and 
one  moved  over  it  spurred  onwards  by  good  spirits  and  the  delightful 
capability  to  enjoy.  If  ever  we  feel  young  afterwards,  it  is  with  the 
comrades  of  that  time :  the  tunes  we  hum  in  our  old  age,  are  those  we 
learned  then.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  the  festivity  of  that  period  revives 
in  our  memory ;  but  how  dingy  the  pleasure-garden  has  grown,  how 
tattered  the  garlands  look,  how  scant  and  old  the  company,  and  what 
a  number  of  the  lights  have  gone  out  since  that  day  !  Grey  hairs  have 
come  on  like  daylight  streaming  in — daylight  and  a  headache  with  it. 
Pleasure  has  gone  to  bed  with  the  rouge  on  her  cheeks.  Well,  friend, 
let  us  wnlk  through  the  day,  sober  and  sad,  but  friendly. 

I  wonder  what  Laura  and  Helen  would  have  said,  could  they  have 
seen,  as  they  might  not  unfrequently  have  done  had  they  been  up  and 
in  London,  in  the  very  early  morning  when  the  bridges  began  to  blush 
in  the  sunrise,  and  the  tranquil  streets  of  the  city  to  shine  in  the  dawn, 
Mr.  Pen  and  Mr.  Warrington  rattling  over  the  echoing  flags  towards 
the  Temple,  after  one  of  their  wild  nights  of  carouse — nights  wild,  but 
not  so  wicked  as  such  nights  sometimes  are,  for  Warrington  was  a 
woman-hater;  and  Pen,  as  we  have  said,  too  lofty  to  stoop  to  a  vulgar 
intrigue.  Our  young  Prince  of  Fairoaks  never  could  speak  to  one  of 
the  sex  but  with  respectful  courtesy,  and  shrank  from  a  coarse  word  or 
gesture  with  instinctive  delicacy— for  though  we  have  seen  him  fall  in 
love  with  a  fool,  as  his  betters  and  inferiors  have  done,  and  as  it  is 
probable  that  he  did  more  than  once  in  his  life,  yet  for  the  time  of  the 

19 


E90  PENDENNIS. 

delusion  it  was  always  as  a  Goddess  that  he  considered  her,  and  chose 
to  wait  upon  her.  Men  serve  women  kneehng — when  they  get  on  their 
feet,  they  go  away. 

That  was  what  an  acquaintance  of  Pen's  said  to  him  in  his  hard 
homely  way; — an  old  friend  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in  again  in 
London — no  other  than  honest  Mr.  Bows  of  the  Chatteris  Theatre, 
who  was  now  employed  as  pianoforte  player,  to  accompany  the 
eminent  lyrical  talent  which  nightly  delighted  the  public  at  the  Field- 
ing's Head  in  Covent  Garden :  and  where  was  held  the  little  club 
called  the  Back  Kitchen. 

Numbers  of  Pen's  friends  frequented  this  very  merry  meeting.  The 
Fielding's  Head  had  been  a  house  of  entertainment,  almost  since  the 
time  when  the  famous  author  of  Tom  Jones  presided  as  magistrate  in 
the  neighbouring  Bow  Street ;  his  place  was  pointed  out,  and  the  chair 
said  to  have  been  his,  still  occupied  by  the  president  of  the  night's 
entertainment.  The  worthy  Cutts,  the  landlord  of  the  Fielding's 
Head,  generally  occupied  this  post  when  not  disabled  by  gout  or 
other  illness.  His  jolly  appearance  and  fine  voice  may  be  remem- 
bered by  some  of  my  male  readers ;  he  used  to  sing  profusely  in  the 
course  of  the  harmonic  meeting,  and  his  songs  were  of  what  may  be 
called  the  British  Brandy  and  Water  School  of  Song — such  as  "  The 
Good  old  English  Gentleman,"  "  Dear  Tom,  this  Brown  Jug,"  and  so 
forth — songs  in  which  pathos  and  hospitality  are  blended,  and  the 
praises  of  good  liquor  and  the  social  affections  are  chanted  in  a  bari- 
tone voice.  The  charms  of  our  women,  the  heroic  deeds  of  our  naval 
and  military  commanders,  are  often  sung  in  the  ballads  of  this  school, 
and  many  a  time  in  my  youth  have  I  admired  how  Cutts  the  singer, 
after  he  had  worked  us  all  up  to  patriotic  enthusiasm,  by  describing 
the  way  in  which  the  brave  Abercrombie  received  his  death-wound,  or 
made  us  join  him  in  tears,  which  he  shed  liberally  himself,  as  in  falter- 
ing accents  he  told  "  how  autumn's  falling  leaf  proclaimed  the  old 
man  he  must  die" — how  Cutts  the  singer  became  at  once  Cutts  the 
landlord,  and,  before  the  applause  which  we  were  making  with  our 
fists  on  his  table,  in  compliment  to  his  heart-stirring  melody,  had 
died  away,  was  calling,  ''  Now,  gentlemen,  give  your  orders,  the 
waiter's  in  the  room — John,  a  champagne  cup  for  Mr.  Green.  I 
think,  sir,  you  said  sausages  and  mashed  potatoes  1  John,  attend  on 
the  gentleman." 

"  And  I'll  thank  ye  give  me  a  glass  of  punch  too,  John,  and  take 
care  the  wather  boils,"  a  voice  would  cry  not  unfrequcntly,  a  well-known 
voice  to  Pen,  which  made  the  lad  blush  and  start  when  he  heard  it  first 
— that  of  the  venerable  Captain  Costigan  ;  who  was  now  established 
in  London,  and  one  of  the  great  pillars  of  the  harmonic  meetings  at 
the  Fielding's  Head. 


PENDENNIS.  291 

The  Captain's  manners  and  conversation  brought  very  many  young 
men  to  the  place.  He  was  a  character,  and  his  fame  had  begun  to 
spread  soon  after  his  arrival  in  the  metropolis,  and  especially  after  his 
daughter's  marriage.  He  was  great  in  his  conversation  to  the  friend 
for  the  time  being  (who  was  the  neighbour  drinking  by  his  side),  about 
"me  daughter."  He  told  of  her  marriage,  and  of  the  events  previous 
and  subsequent  to  that  ceremony  ;  of  the  carriages  she  kept ;  of 
iMirabel's  adoration  for  her  and  for  him;  of  the  hunther  pounds  which 
he  was  at  perfect  liberty  to  draw  from  his  son-in-law,  whenever  neces- 
sity urged  him.  And  having  stated  that  it  was  his  firm  intention  to 
"dthraw  next  Sathurday,  I  give  ye  me  secred  word  and  honour  next 
Sathurday,  the  fourteenth,  when  ye'll  see  the  money  will  be  handed  over 
to  me  at  Coutts's,  the  very  instant  I  present  the  cheque,"  the  Captain 
would  not  unfrequently  propose  to  borrow  half-a-crown  of  his  friend 
until  the  arrival  of  that  day  of  Greek  Calends,  when,  on  the  honour 
of  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  he  would  repee  the  thrifling  obligetion. 

Sir  Charles  Mirabel  had  not  that  enthusiastic  attachment  to  his 
father-in-law,  of  which  the  latter  sometimes  boasted  (although  in  other 
stages  of  emotion  Cos  would  inveigh,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  against 
the  ingratitude  of  the  child  of  his  bosom,  and  the  stinginess  of  the 
wealthy  old  man  who  had  married  her) ;  but  the  pair  had  acted  not 
unkindly  towards  Costigan;  had  settled  a  small  pension  on  him, 
which  was  paid  regularly,  and  forestalled  with  even  more  regularity 
by  poor  Cos  ;  and  the  period  of  the  payments  were  always  well 
known  by  his  friends  at  the  Fielding's  Head,  whither  the  honest 
Captain  took  care  to  repair,  bank-notes  in  hand,  calling  loudly  for 
change  in  the  midst  of  the  full  harmonic  meeting.  "  I  think  ye'll 
find  ihai  note  won't  be  refused  at  the  Bank  of  England,  Cutts,  my 
boy,"  Captain  Costigan  would  say.  "  Bows,  have  a  glass  .-'  Ye  needn't 
stint  yourself  to-night,  anyhow;  and  a  glass  of  punch  will  make  ye 
play  cott  spirito."  For  he  was  lavishly  free  with  his  money  when  it 
came  to  him,  and  was  scarcely  known  to  button  his  breeches-pocket, 
except  when  the  coin  was  gone,  or  sometimes,  indeed,  when  a  creditor 
came  by. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  moments  of  exultation  that  Pen  found  his 
old  friend  swaggering  at  the  singers'  table  at  the  Back  Kitchen  of  the 
Fielding's  Head,  and  ordering  glasses  of  brandy-and-water  for  any  of 
his  acquaintances  who  made  their  appearance  in  the  apartment. 
Warrington,  who  was  on  confidential  terms  with  the  bass  singer, 
made  his  way  up  to  this  quarter  of  the  room,  and  Pen  walked  at  his 
friend's  heels. 

Pen  started  and  blushed  to  see  Costigan.  He  had  just  come 
from  Lady  Whiston's  party,  where  he  had  met  and  spoken  with  the 
Captain's  daughter  again  for  the  first  time  after  ver}'  old  old  days. 


29- 


PEiYDEiXNIS. 


He  came  up  with  outstretched  hand,  very  kindly  and  wannly  to  greet 
the  old  man ;  still  retaining  a  strong  remembrance  of  the  time  when 
Costigan's  daughter  had  been  everything  in  the  world  to  him.  For 
though  this  young  gentleman  may  have  been  somewhat  capricious  in 
his  attachments,  and  occasionally  have  transferred  his  affections  from 
one  woman  to  another,  yet  he  always  respected  the  place  where  Love 
had  dwelt,  and,  like  the  Sultan  of  Turkey,  desired  that  honours  should 
be  paid  to  the  lady  towards  whom  he  had  once  thrown  the  royal 
pocket-handkerchief. 

The  tipsy  Captain  returned  the  clasp  of  Pen's  hand  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  palm  which  had  become  very  shaky  by  the  constant 
lifting  up  of  weights  of  brandy  and  water,  looked  hard  in  Pen's  face, 
and  said,  "  Grecious  heavens,  is  it  possible  ?  Me  dear  boy,  me  dear 
fellow,  me  dear  friend ; "  and  then  with  a  look  of  muddled  curiosity, 
fairly  broke  down  with,  "  I  know  your  face,  me  dear  dear  friend,  but, 
bedad,  Pve  forgot  your  name."  Five  years  of  constant  punch  had 
passed  since  Pen  and  Costigan  met.  Arthur  was  a  good  deal  changed, 
and  the  Captain  may  surely  be  excused  for  forgetting  him ;  when  a 
man  at  the  actual  moment  sees  things  double,  we  m.ay  expect  that  his 
view  of  the  past  will  be  rather  muzzy. 

Pen  saw  his  condition  and  laughed,  although,  perhaps,  he  was 
somewhat  mortified.  "  Don't  you  remember  me.  Captain.^"  he  said. 
"  I  am  Pendennis — Arthur  Pendennis,  of  Chatteris." 

The  sound  of  the  young  man's  friendly  voice  recalled  and  steadied 
Cos's,  tipsy  remembrance,  and  he  saluted  Arthur,  as  soon  as  he  knew 
him,  with  a  loud  volley  of  friendly  greetings.  Pen  was  his  dearest  boy, 
his  gallant  young  friend,  his  noble  collagian,  whom  he  had  held  in  his 
inmost  heart  ever  since  they  had  parted — how  was  his  fawther,  no, 
his  mother,  and  his  guardian,  the  General,  the  Major .'  "  I  preshoom, 
from  your  appearance,  that  you've  come  into  your  prawpertee  ;  and, 
bedad,  ye'll  spend  it  like  a  man  of  spirit — Pll  go  bail  for  /hat.  No  ! 
not  yet  come  into  your  estete  ?  If  ye  want  any  thrifle,  heark  ye, 
there's  poor  old  Jack  Costigan  has  got  a  guinea  or  two  in  his  pocket 
— and,  be  heavens !  yon  shall  never  want,  Awthur,  me  dear  boy. 
What'll  ye  have  ?  John,  come  hither,  and  look  aloive ;  give  this  gen- 
tleman a  glass  of  punch,  and  Pll  pay  for't. — You?-  friend  ?  P've  seen 
him  before.  Permit  me  to  have  the  honour  of  making  meself  known 
to  ye,  sir,  and  requesting  ye'll  take  a  glass  of  punch." 

"  I  don't  envy  Sir  Charles  Mirabel  his  father-in-law,"  thought  Pen- 
dennis, "And  how  is  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Bows,  Captain  ?  Have  yoa 
any  news  of  him,  and  do  you  see  him  still  ? " 

"  No  doubt  he's  very  well,"  said  the  Captain,  jingling  his  money, 
and  whistling  the  air  of  a  song—"  The  Little  Doodcen  "—for  the 
singing  of  which  he  was  celebrated  at  the  Fielding's  Head.     "  Me 


PENDENNIS.  293 

dear  boy — I've  forgot  your  name  again— but  me  name's  Costigan, 
Jack  Costigan,  and  I'd  loike  ye  to  take  as  many  tumblers  of  punch  in 
me  name  as  ever  ye  loike.  Ye  know  me  name;  I'm  not  ashamed  of 
it."     And  so  the  Captain  went  maundering  on. 

"  It's  pay-day  with  the  General,"  said  Mr.  Hodgen,  the  bass  singer, 
with  whom  Warrington  was  in  deep  conversation :  "  and  he's  a  precious 
deal  more  than  half-seas  over.  He  has  already  tried  that  '  Little 
Doodeen'  of  his,  and  broke  it,  too,  just  before  I  sang  'King  Death.' 
Have  you  heard  my  new  song,  '  The  Body  Snatcher,'  Mr.  Warrington  ? 
— angcored  at  St.  Bartholomew's  the  other  night — composed  expressly 
for  me.  Perhaps  you  or  your  friend  would  like  a  copy  of  the  song,  sir? 
John,  just  'ave  the  kindness  to  'and  over  a  '  Body  Snatcher'  'ere,  will 
yer  ? — There's  a  portrait  of  me,  sir,  as  I  sing  it — as  the  Snatcher — 
considered  rather  like." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Warrlngtor  ;  "  heard  it  nine  times — know  it  by 
heart,  Hodgen." 

Here  the  gentleman  who  presided  at  the  pianoforte  began  to  play 
upon  his  instrument,  and  Pen,  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  music, 
beheld  that  very  Mr.  Bows,  for  whom  he  had  been  asking  but  now, 
and  whose  existence  Costigan  had  momentarily  forgotten.  The  little 
old  man  sate  before  the  battered  piano  (which  had  injured  its  consti- 
tution wofully  by  sitting  up  so  many  nights,  and  spoke  with  a  voice, 
as  it  were,  at  once  hoarse  and  faint),  and  accompanied  the  singers,  or 
played  with  taste  and  grace  in  the  intervals  of  the  songs. 

Bows  had  seen  and  recollected  Pen  at  once  when  the  latter  came 
into  the  room,  and  had  remarked  the  eager  warmth  of  the  young 
man's  recognition  of  Costigan.  He  now  began  to  play  an  air,  which 
Pen  instantly  remembered  as  one  which  used  to  be  sung  by  the  chorus 
of  villagers  in  "  The  Stranger,"  just  before  Mrs.  Haller  came  in.  It 
shook  Pen  as  he  heard  it.  He  remembered  how  his  heart  used  to  beat 
as  that  air  v/as  played,  and  before  the  divine  Emily  made  her  entry. 
Nobody,  save  Arthur,  took  any  notice  of  old  Bows's  playing:  it  was 
scarcely  heard  amidst  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks,  the  calls  for 
poached  eggs  and  kidneys,  and  the  tramp  of  guests  and  waiters. 

Pen  went  up  and  kindly  shook  the  player  by  the  hand  at  the  end 
of  his  performance;  and  Bows  greeted  Arthur  with  great  respect  and 
cordiality.  "What,  you  haven't  forgot  the  old  tune,  Mr.  Pendennis?" 
he  said  ;  "  I  thought  you'd  remember  it.  I  take  it,  it  was  the  first 
tune  of  that  sort  you  ever  heard  played — wasn't  it,  sir?  You  were 
quite  a  young  chap  then.  I  fear  the  Captain's  very  bad  to  night.  He 
breaks  out  on  a  pay-day;  and  I  shall  have  the  deuce's  own  trouble 
in  getting  him  home.  We  live  together.  We  still  hang  on,  sir,  in 
partnership,  though  Miss  Em — though  my  Lady  Mirabel  has  left 
the  firm.     And  so  you  remember  old  times,  do  you  ?     Wasn't  she 


294  PENDENNIS. 

a  beauty,  sir  ? — Your  health  and  my  service  to  you," — and  he  took 
a  sip  at  the  pewter  measure  of  porter  which  stood  by  his  side  as 
he  played. 

Pen  had  many  opportunities  of  seeing  his  early  acquaintances 
afterwards,  and  of  renewing  his  relations  with  Costigan  and  the  old 
musician. 

As  they  sate  thus  in  friendly  colloquy,  men  of  all  sorts  and  con- 
ditions entered  and  quitted  the  house  of  entertainment ;  and  Pen  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  as  many  different  persons  of  his  race,  as  the 
most  eager  observer  need  desire  to  inspect.  Healthy  country  trades- 
men and  farmers,  in  London  for  their  business,  came  and  recreated 
themselves  with  the  jolly  singing  and  suppers  of  the  Back  Kitchen, — 
squads  of  young  apprentices  and  assistants,  the  shutters  being  closed 
over  the  scene  of  their  labours,  came  hither,  for  fresh  air  doubtless, 
— rakish  young  medical  students,  gallant,  dashing,  what  is  called 
"  loudly  "  dressed,  and  (must  it  be  owned  ?)  somewhat  dirty, — were 
here  smoking  and  drinking,  and  vociferously  applauding  the  songs; — 
young  university  bucks  were  to  be  found  here,  too,  with  that  inde- 
scribable genteel  simper  which  is  only  learned  at  the  knees  of  Alma 
Mater ; — and  handsome  young  guardsmen,  and  florid  bucks  from  the 
St.  James's  Street  Clubs  ; — nay,  senators  English  and  Irish  :  and  even 
members  of  the  House  of  Peers. 

The  bass  singer  had  made  an  immense  hit  with  his  song  of  "  The 
Body  Snatcher,"  and  the  town  rushed  to  listen  to  it.  A  curtain  drew 
aside,  and  Mr.  Hodgen  appeared  in  the  character  of  the  Snatcher, 
sitting  on  a  coffin,  with  a  flask  of  gin  before  him,  with  a  spade,  and 
a  candle  stuck  in  a  skull.  The  song  was  sung  with  a  really  admirable 
terrific  humour.  The  singer's  voice  went  down  so  low,  that  its 
grumbles  rumbled  into  the  hearer's  awe-stricken  soul ;  and  in  the 
chorus  he  clamped  with  his  spade,  and  gave  a  demoniac  "  Ha!  ha!" 
which  caused  the  very  glasses  to  quiver  on  the  table,  as  with  terror. 
None  of  the  other  singers,  not  even  Cutts  himself,  as  that  high-minded 
man  owned,  could  stand  up  before  the  Snatcher,  and  he  commonly 
used  to  retire  to  Mrs.  Cutts's  private  apartments,  or  into  the  bar,  before 
that  fatal  song  extinguished  him.  Poor  Cos's  ditty,  '•  The  Little 
Doodeen,"  which  Bows  accompanied  charmingly  on  the  piano,  was 
sung  but  to  a  few  admirers,  who  might  choose  to  remain  after  the  tre- 
mendous resurrectionist  chant.  The  room  was  commonly  emptied 
after  that,  or  only  left  in  possession  of  a  verj'  few  and  persevering 
votaries  of  pleasure. 

Whilst  Pen  and  his  friend  were  sitting  here  together  one  night,  or 
rather  morning,  two  habituds  of  the  house  entered  almost  together. 
"  Mr.  Hoolan  and  Mr.  Doolan,"  whispered  Warrington  to  Pen,  saluting 


PENDENNIS.  295 

these  gentlemen,  and  in  the  latter  Pen  recognised  his  friend  of  the 
"  Alacrity  "  coach,  who  could  not  dine  with  Pen  on  the  day  on  -which  the 
latter  had  invited  him,  being  compelled  by  his  professional  duties  to 
decline  dinner-engagements  on  Fridays,  he  had  stated,  with  his  com- 
pliments to  Mr.  Pendennis. 

Doolan's  paper,  the  "  Dawn,"  was  lying  on  the  table  much  bestained 
by  porter,  and  cheek-by-jowl  with  Hoolan's  paper,  which  we  shall  call 
the  "  Day;"  the  "  Dawn"  was  liberal — the  "  Day"  was  ultra  conser- 
vative. Many  of  our  Journals  are  officered  by  Irish  gentlemen,  and 
their  gallant  brigade  does  the  penning  among  us,  as  their  ancestors 
used  to  transact  the  fighting  in  Europe ;  and  engage  under  many  a 
flag,  to  be  good  friends  when  the  battle  is  over. 

"  Kidneys,  John,  and  a  glass  of  stout,''  says  Hoolan.  "  How  are 
you,  Morgan  ?  how's  Mrs.  Doolan  ?  " 

"  Doing  pretty  well,  thank  ye,  Mick,  my  boy — faith  she's  accus- 
tomed to  it,"  said  Doolan.  "  How's  the  lady  that  owns  ye?  Maybe 
I'll  step  down  Sunday,  and  have  a  glass  of  punch,  Kilburn  way." 

"  Don't  bring  Patsey  with  you,  Morgan,  for  our  Georgey's  got  the 
measles,"  said  the  friendly  Mick,  and  they  straightway  fell  to  talk 
about  matters  connected  with  their  trade — about  the  foreign  mails — 
about  who  was  correspondent  at  Paris,  and  who  wrote  from  Madrid — 
about  the  expense  the  "  Morning  Journal "  was  at  in  sending  couriers, 
about  the  circulation  of  the  "  Evening  Star,"  and  so  forth. 

Warrington,  laughing,  took  the  "  Dawn  "  which  was  lying  before 
him,  and  pointed  to  one  of  the  leading  articles  in  that  journal,  which 
commenced  thus — 

"  As  rogues  of  note  in  former  days  who  had  some  wicked  work  to 
perform, — an  enemy  to  put  out  of  the  way,  a  quantity  of  false  coin  to 
be  passed,  a  lie  to  be  told  or  a  murder  to  be  done, — employed  a  pro- 
fessional perjurer  or  assassin  to  do  the  work,  which  they  were  them- 
selves too  notorious  or  too  cowardly  to  execute;  our  notorious  con- 
temporary, the  'Day,'  engages  smashers  out  of  doors  to  utter  forgeries 
against  individuals,  and  calls  in  auxiliary  cut-throats  to  murder  the 
reputation  of  those  who  offended  him.  A  black-vizardcd  ruffian 
(whom  we  will  unmask),  who  signs  the  forged  name  of  Trefoil,  is  at 
present  one  of  the  chief  bravoes  and  bullies  in  our  contemporary's 
estabhshment.  He  is  the  eunuch  who  brings  the  bowstring,  and 
strangles  at  the  order  of  the  '  Day.'  We  can  convict  this  cowardly 
slave,  and  propose  to  do  so.  The  charge  which  he  has  brought 
against  Lord  Bangbanagher,  because  he  is  a  hbcral  Irish  peer,  and 
against  the  Board  of  Poor  Law  Guardians  of  the  Bangbanagher 
Union,  is,"  &c. 

"How  did  they  like  the  article  at  your  place,  Mick?"  asked 
Morgan  ;  "  when  tlie  Captain  puts  his  hand  to  it  he's  a  tremendous 


296  PENDENNIS. 

liand  at  a  smasher.  He  wrote  the  article  in  two  hours — in — whew — 
you  know  where,  while  the  boy  was  waiting." 

"  Our  governor  thinks  the  pubhc  don't  mind  a  straw  about  these 
newspaper  rows,  and  has  told  the  Docther  to  stop  answering,"  said 
the  other.  "  Them  two  talked  it  out  together  in  my  room.  The 
Docther  would  have  liked  a  turn,  for  he  says  it's  such  easy  writing, 
and  requires  no  reading  up  of  a  subject :  but  the  governor  put  a  stopper 
on  him.'' 

"  The  taste  for  eloquence  is  going  out,  Mick,"  said  Morgan. 

" '  Deed  then  it  is,  Morgan,"  said  Mick.  "  That  was  fine  writing 
when  the  Docther  wrote  in  the  '  Phaynix,'  and  he  and  Condy  Rooney 
blazed  away  at  each  other  day  after  day." 

"  And  with  powder  and  shot,  too,  as  well  as  paper,"  said  Morgan. 
"  Faith,  the  Docther  was  out  twice,  and  Condy  Rooney  winged  his 
man." 

"  They  are  talking  about  Doctor  Boyne  and  Captain  Shandon," 
Warrington  said,  "who  are  the  two  Irish  controversialists  of  the 
'Dawn'  and  the  'Day,'  Dr.  Boyne  being  the  Protestant  champion, 
and  Captain  Shandon  the  liberal  orator.  They  are  the  best  friends  in 
the  world,  I  believe,  in  spite  of  their  newspaper  controversies;  and 
though  they  cry  out  against  the  English  for  abusing  their  countrj-, 
by  Jove  they  abuse  it  themselves  more  in  a  single  article  than  we 
should  take  the  pains  to  do  in  a  dozen  volumes.  How  are  you. 
Doolan?" 

"  Your  servant,  Mr.  Warrington — Mr.  Pendennis,  I  am  delighted 
to  have  the  honour  of  seeing  ye  again.  The  night's  journey  on  the 
top  of  the  '  Alacrity '  was  one  of  the  most  agreeable  I  ever  enjoyed  in 
my  life,  and  it  was  your  liveliness  and  urbanity  that  made  the  trip  so 
charming.  I  have  often  thought  over  that  happy  night,  sir,  and 
talked  over  it  to  Mrs.  Doolan.  I  have  seen  your  elegant  young  friend, 
Mr.  Foker,  too,  here,  sir,  not  unfrequently.  He  is  an  occasional 
frequenter  of  this  hostelry,  and  a  right  good  one  it  is.  Mr.  Pendennis, 
when  I  saw  you  I  was  on  the  '  Tom  and  Jerry  '  Weekly  Paper ;  I  have 
now  the  honour  to  be  sub-editor  of  the  '  Dawn,'  one  of  the  best  written 
papers  of  the  empire  " — and  he  bowed  verj-  slightly  to  Mr.  Warrington. 
His  speech  was  unctuous  and  nieasured,  his  courtesy  oriental,  his  tone, 
when  talking  with  the  two  Englishmen,  quite  difierent  to  that  with 
which  he  spoke  to  his  comrade. 

"  Why  the  devil  will  the  fellow  compliment  so  1 "  gi-owled  War- 
rington, with  a  sneer  which  he  hardly  took  the  pains  to  suppress. 
"  Psha — who  comes  here  ? — all  Parnassus  is  abroad  to-night :  here's 
Archer.     We  shall  have  some  fun.     Well,  Archer,  House  up  ?" 

"Haven't  been  there.  I  have  been,"  said  Archer,  with  an  air  of 
mystery,  "where  I  was  wanted.      Get  me  some  supper,  John— some- 


PENDENNIS.  297 

thing  substantial.  I  hate  your  grandees  who  give  you  nothing  to  cat. 
If  it  had  been  at  Apsley  House,  it  would  have  been  quite  different. 
The  Duke  knows  what  I  like,  and  says  to  the  Groom  of  the  Chambers, 
'Martin,  you  will  have  some  cold  beef,  not  too  much  done,  and  a 
pint  bottle  of  pale  ale,  and  some  brown  sherry,  ready  in  my  study  as 
usual ;  Archer  is  coming  here  this  evening.'  The  Duke  doesn't  eat 
supper  himself,  but  he  likes  to  see  a  man  enjoy  a  hearty  meal,  and 
he  knows  that  I  dine  early.  A  man  can't  live  upon  air,  be  hanged  to 
him." 

"  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my  friend,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Warrington 
said,  with  great  gravity.  "  Pen,  this  is  Mr.  Archer,  whom  you  have 
heard  me  talk  about.  You  must  know  Pen's  uncle,  the  Major,  Archer, 
you  who  know  everybody.'"' 

"  Dined  with  him  the  day  before  yesterday  at  Gaunt  House," 
Archer  said.  "  We  were  four — the  French  Ambassador,  Steyne,  and 
we  two  commoners." 

"  Why,  my  uncle  is  in  Scot — "  Pen  was  going  to  break  out,  but 
Warrington  pressed  his  foot  under  the  table  as  a  signal  for  him  to 
he  quiet. 

"  It  was  about  the  same  business  that  I  have  been  to  the  palace 
to-night,"  Archer  went  on  simply,  "and  where  I've  been  kept  four 
hours,  in  an  anteroom,  with  nothing  but  yesterday's  '  Times,'  which  1 
knew  by  heart,  as  I  wrote  three  of  the  leading  articles  myself ;  and 
though  the  Lord  Chamberlain  came  in  four  times,  and  once  holding 
the  royal  teacup  and  saucer  in  his  hand,  he  did  not  so  much  as  say  to 
me,  '  Archer,  will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  ? '  " 

"Indeed!  what  is  in  the  wind  now?"  asked  Warrington — and 
turning  to  Pen,  added,  "  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  when  there  is 
anything  wrong  at  court  they  always  send  for  Arclier." 

"  There  is  something  wrong,"  said  Mr.  Archer,  "  and  as  the  story 
will  be  all  over  the  town  in  a  day  or  two  I  don't  mind  telling  it.  At 
the  last  Chantilly  races,  where  I  rode  Brian  Boru  for  my  old  friend 
the  Duke  de  St.  Cloud — the  old  king  said  to  me.  Archer,  I'm  uneasy 
about  Saint  Cloud.  I  have  arranged  his  marriage  with  the  Princess 
Marie  Cundgonde ;  the  peace  of  Europe  depends  upon  it  —  for 
Russia  will  declare  war  if  the  marriage  does  not  take  place,  and 
the  young  fool  is  so  mad  about  Madame  Massena,  Marshal  Mas- 
sena's  wife,  that  he  actually  refuses  to  be  a  party  to  the  marriage. 
Well,  sir,  I  spoke  to  Saint  Cloud,  and  having  got  him  into  pretty 
good  humour  by  winning  the  race,  and  a  good  bit  of  money  into 
the  bargain,  he  said  to  me,  'Archer,  tell  the  Governor  Til  think 
of  it.'" 

"  How  do  you  say  Governor  in  French  .-'"  asked  Pen,  who  piqued 
himself  on  knowing  that  language. 


29S  PENDEiWAIS. 

"  Ob,  we  speak  in  English — I  taught  him  when  we  were  boys,  and 
I  saved  his  life  at  Twickenham,  when  he  fell  out  of  a  punt,"  Archer 
said.  "  I  shall  never  forget  the  Queen's  looks  as  I  brought  him  out 
of  the  water.  She  gave  me  this  diamond  ring,  and  always  calls  me 
Charles  to  this  day." 

"  Madame  Massena  must  be  rather  an  old  woman,  Archer,"  War- 
rington said. 

"  Dev'lish  old — old  enough  to  be  his  grandmother ;  I  told  him 
so,"  Archer  answered  at  once.  "  But  those  attachments  for  old 
women  are  the  deuce  and  all.  That's  what  the  king  feels  :  that's 
what  shocks  the  poor  queen  so  much.  They  went  away  from  Paris 
last  Tuesday  night,  and  are  living  at  this  present  moment  at  Jaunay^s 
hotel." 

"  Has  there  been  a  private  marriage.  Archer  ? "  asked  Warrington. 

"  Whether  there  has  or  not  I  don't  know,"  Mr.  Archer  replied  ; 
"  all  I  know  is  that  I  was  kept  waiting  for  hours  at  the  palace  ;  that 
I  never  saw  a  man  in  such  a  state  of  agitation  as  the  King  of  Belgium 
when  he  came  out  to  speak  to  me,  and  that  I'm  devilish  hungrj- — and 
here  comes  some  supper." 

"  He  has  been  pretty  well  to-night,"  said  Warrington,  as  the  pair 
went  home  together  :  "  but  I  have  known  him  in  much  greater  force, 
and  keeping  a  whole  room  in  a  state  of  wonder.  Put  aside  his 
archery  practice,  that  man  is  both  able  and  honest — a  good  man  of 
business,  an  excellent  friend,  admirable  to  his  family  as  husband, 
father,  and  son." 

"  What  is  it  makes  him  pull  the  long  bow  in  that  wonderful 
manner  ? " 

"An  amiable  insanity,"  answered  Warrington.  "He  never  did 
anybody  harm  by  his  talk,  or  said  evil  of  anybody.  He  is  a  stout 
politician  too,  and  would  never  write  a  word  or  do  an  act  against  his 
party,  as  many  of  us  do." 

"Of  tts /  Who  are  ive?"  asked  Pen.  "Of  what  profession  is 
Mr.  Archer  ? " 

•'  Of  the  Corporation  of  the  Goosequill — of  the  Press,  my  boy," 
said  Warrington  ;  "  of  the  fourth  estate." 

'■  Are  you,  too,  of  the  craft,  then  ?"  Pendennis  said. 

"  We  will  talk  about  that  another  time,"  answered  the  other. 
They  were  passing  through  the  Strand  as  they  talked,  and  by  a 
newspaper  office,  which  was  all  lighted  up  and  bright.  Reporters 
were  coming  out  of  the  place,  or  rushing  up  to  it  in  cabs  ;  there 
were  lamps  burning  in  the  editors'  rooms,  and  above,  where  the 
compositors  were  at  work  :  the  windows  of  the  building  were  in  a 
blaze  of  gas. 

"  Look  at   that,    Pen,"   Warrington    said.     "  There   she    is— the 


PENDENNIS.  299 

great  engine — she  never  sleeps.  She  has  her  ambassadors  in  every 
quarter  of  the  world — her  couriers  upon  every  road.  Her  officers 
march  along  with  armies,  and  her  envoys  walk  into  statesmen's 
cabinets.  They  are  ubiquitous.  Yonder  journal  has  an  agent,  at 
this  minute,  giving  bribes  at  Madrid  ;  and  another  inspecting  the 
price  of  potatoes  in  Covent  Garden.  Look  !  here  comes  the  Foreign 
Express  galloping  in.  They  will  be  able  to  give  news  to  Downing- 
Street  to-morrow  :  funds  will  rise  or  fall,  fortunes  be  made  or  lost ; 
Lord  B.  will  get  up,  and,  holding  the  paper  in  his  hand,  and  seeing 
the  noble  marquis  in  his  place,  will  make  a  great  speech  ;  and — and 
Mr.  Doolan  will  be  called  away  from  his  supper  at  the  Back  Kitchen  ; 
for  he  is  foreign  sub-editor,  and  sees  the  mail  on  the  newspaper  sheet 
before  he  goes  to  his  own." 

And  so  talking,  the  friends  turned  into  their  chambers,  as  the 
dawn  was  beginning  to  peep. 


300  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 
IN  WHICH  THE  PRINTER'S  DEVIL   COMES  TO  THE  DOOR. 

PEN,  in  the  midst  of  his  revels  and  enjoyments,  humble  as  they 
were,  and  moderate  in  cost  if  not  in  kind,  saw  an  awful  sword 
hanging  over  him  which  must  drop  down  before  long  and  put  an  end 
to  his  frolics  and  feasting.  His  money  was  ver>'  nearly  spent.  His 
club  subscription  had  carried  away  a  third  part  of  it.  He  had  paid 
for  the  chief  articles  of  furniture  with  which  he  had  supplied  his  little 
bed-room :  in  fine,  he  was  come  to  the  last  five-pound  note  in  his 
pocket-book,  and  could  think  of  no  method  of  providing  a  successor : 
for  our  friend  had  been  bred  up  like  a  young  prince  as  yet,  or  as  a 
child  in  arms  whom  his  mother  feeds  when  it  cries  out. 

Warrington  did  not  know  what  his  comrade's  means  were.  An 
only  child,  with  a  mother  at  her  countrj'  house,  and  an  old  dandy  of 
an  uncle  who  dined  with  a  great  man  every  day.  Pen  might  have  a 
large  bank  at  his  command  for  anything  that  the  other  knew.  He  had 
gold  chains  and  a  dressing-case  fit  for  a  lord.  His  habits  were  those 
of  an  aristocrat, — not  that  he  was  expensive  upon  any  particular  point, 
for  he  dined  and  laughed  over  the  pint  of  porter  and  the  plate  of  beef 
from  the  cook's  shop  with  perfect  content  and  good  appetite, — but  he 
could  not  adopt  the  penny-wise  precautions  of  hfe.  He  could  not  give 
twopence  to  a  waiter ;  he  could  not  refrain  from  taking  a  cab  if  he  had 
a  mind  to  do  so,  or  if  it  rained,  and  as  surely  as  he  took  the  cab  he 
overpaid  the  driver.  He  had  a  scorn  for  cleaned  gloves  and  minor 
economies.  Had  he  been  bred  to  ten  thousand  a  year  he  could  scarcely 
have  been  more  free-handed ;  and  for  a  beggar,  with  a  sad  stor>-,  or  a 
couple  of  pretty  piteous-faced  children,  he  never  could  resist  putting 
his  hand  into  his  pocket.  It  was  a  sumptuous  nature,  perhaps,  that 
could  not  be  brought  to  regard  money ;  a  natural  generosity  and  kind- 
ness ;  and  possibly  a  petty  vanity  that  was  pleased  with  praise,  even 
with  the  praise  of  waiters  and  cabmen.  I  doubt  whether  the  wisest  of 
us  know  what  our  own  motives  are,  and  whether  some  of  the  actions 
of  which  we  are  the  very  proudest  will  not  surprise  us  when  we  trace 
them,  as  we  shall  one  day,  to  their  source. 

Warrington  then  did  not  know,  and  Pen  had  not  thought  proper  to 
confide  to  his  friend,  his  pecuniar}-  historj-.     That  Pen  had  been  wild 


PENDENNIS.  301 

and  wickedly  extravagant  at  college,  the  other  was  aware ;  everybody 
at  college  was  extravagant  and  wild  ;  but  how  great  the  son's  expenses 
had  been,  and  how  small  the  mother's  means,  were  points  which  had 
not  been  as  yet  submitted  to  Mr.  Warrington's  examination. 

At  last  the  story  came  out,  while  Pen  was  grimly  surveying  the 
change  for  the  last  five-pound  note,  as  it  lay  upon  the  tray  from  the 
public-house  by  Mr.  Warrington's  pot  of  ale. 

"  It  is  the  last  rose  of  summer,"  said  Pen  ;  "  its  blooming  com- 
panions have  gone  long  ago  ;  and  behold  the  last  one  of  the  garland 
has  shed  its  leaves ; "  and  he  told  Warrington  the  whole  story  which 
we  know  of  his  mother's  means,  of  his  own  follies,  of  Laura's  gene- 
rosity ;  during  which  time  Warrington  smoked  his  pipe  and  listened 
intent. 

"  Impecuniosity  will  do  you  good,"  Pen's  friend  said,  knocking  out 
the  ashes  at  the  end  of  the  narration ;  "  I  don't  know  anything  more 
wholesome  for  a  man — for  an  honest  man,  mind  you — for  another,  the 
medicine  loses  its  effect — than  a  state  of  tick.  It  is  an  alterative  and 
a  tonic  ;  it  keeps  your  moral  man  in  a  perpetual  state  of  excitement : 
as  a  man  who  is  riding  at  a  fence,  or  has  his  opponent's  singlestick 
before  him,  is  forced  to  look  his  obstacle  steadily  in  the  face,  and 
brace  himself  to  repulse  or  overcome  it ;  a  little  necessity  brings  out 
your  pluck  if  you  have  any,  and  nerves  you  to  grapple  with  fortune. 
You  will  discover  what  a  number  of  things  you  can  do  without  when 
you  have  no  money  to  buy  them.  You  won't  want  new  gloves  and 
varnished  boots,  eau-de-Cologne,  and  cabs  to  ride  in.  You  have  been 
bred  up  as  a  molly-coddle.  Pen,  and  spoilt  by  the  women.  A  single 
man  who  has  health  and  brains,  and  can't  find  a  livelihood  in  the 
world,  doesn't  deserve  to  stay  there.  Let  him  pay  his  last  halfpenny 
and  jump  over  Waterloo  Bridge.  Let  him  steal  a  leg  of  mutton  and 
be  transported  and  get  out  of  the  country — he  is  not  fit  to  live  in  it. 
Dixi ;  I  have  spoken.     Give  us  another  pull  at  the  pale  ale." 

"You  have  certainly  spoken;  but  how  is  one  to  live.''"  said  Pen. 
"  There  is  beef  and  bread  in  plenty  in  England,  but  you  must  pay  for 
it  with  work  or  money.  And  who  will  take  my  work  ?  and  what  work 
can  I  do?" 

Warrington  burst  out  laughing.  "  Suppose  we  advertise  in  the 
'  Times,'"  he  said,  "  for  an  usher's  place  at  a  classical  and  commercial 
academy— A  gentleman,  B.A.  of  St.  Boniface  College,  Oxbridge,  and 
who  was  plucked  for  his  degree — " 

"  Confound  you,"  cried  Pen. 

"  —  Wishes  to  give  lessons  in  classics  and  mathematics,  and  the 
rudiments  of  the  French  language ;  he  can  cut  hair,  attend  to  the 
younger  pupils,  and  play  a  second  on  the  piano  with  the  daughters  of 
the  principal.     Address  A. P.,  Lamb  Court,  Temple." 


1  mmi  STATE  ceiLEuZ  \y^ 


\H\ 


302  PENDENNIS. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Pen,  growling. 

"  Men  take  to  all  sorts  of  professions.  Why,  there  is  your  friend 
Bloundell — Bloundell  is  a  professional  blackleg,  and  travels  the  con- 
tinent, where  he  picks  up  young  gentlemen  of  fashion  and  fleeces  them. 
There  is  Bob  O'Toole,  with  whom  I  was  at  school,  who  drives  the 
Ballinafad  mail  now,  and  carries  honest  Jack  Finucane's  own  corre- 
spondence to  that  city.  I  know  a  man,  sir,  a  doctor's  son,  like — well, 
don't  be  angr)^,  I  meant  nothing  offensive — a  doctor^s  son,  I  say,  who 
was  walking  the  hospitals  here,  and  quarrelled  with  his  governor  on 
questions  of  finance,  and  what  did  he  do  when  he  came  to  his  last 
five-pound  note  t  he  let  his  mustachios  grow,  went  into  a  provincial 
town,  where  he  announced  himself  as  Professor  Spineto,  chiropodist 
to  the  Emperor  of  All  the  Russias,  and  by  a  happy  operation  on  the 
editor  of  the  county  newspaper,  established  himself  in  practice,  and 
lived  reputably  for  three  years.  He  has  been  reconciled  to  his  family, 
and  has  now  succeeded  to  his  father's  gallipots." 

"  Hang  gallipots,"  cried  Pen.  "  I  can't  drive  a  coach,  cut  corns, 
or  cheat  at  cards.     There's  nothing  else  you  propose." 

"  Yes ;  there's  our  own  correspondent,"  Warrington  said.  "  Every 
man  has  his  secrets,  look  you.  Before  you  told  me  the  story  of  your 
money  matters,  I  had  no  idea  but  that  you  were  a  gentleman  of  fortune, 
for,  with  your  confounded  airs  and  appearance,  anybody  would  suppose 
you  to  be  so.  From  what  you  tell  me  about  your  mother's  income,  it 
is  clear  that  you  must  not  lay  any  more  hands  on  it.  You  can't  go  on 
sponging  upon  the  women.  You  must  pay  off  that  trump  of  a  girl. 
Laura  is  her  name  ? — here's  your  health,  Laura ! — and  carry  a  hod 
rather  than  ask  for  a  shilling  from  home." 

"  But  how  earn  one  ? "  asked  Pen. 

"  How  do  I  live,  think  you  ? "  said  the  other.  "  On  my  younger 
brother's  allowance,  Pendennis  ?  I  have  secrets  of  my  own,  my  boy ; " 
and  here  Warrington's  countenance  fell.  "  I  made  away  with  that 
allowance  five  years  ago  :  if  I  had  made  away  with  myself  a  little  time 
before,  it  would  have  been  better.  I  have  played  off  my  own  bat,  ever 
since.  I  don't  want  much  money.  When  my  purse  is  out,  I  go  to 
work  and  fill  it,  and  then  lie  idle  like  a  serpent  or  an  Indian,  untU  I 
have  digested  the  mass.  Look,  I  begin  to  feel  empty,"  Warrington 
said,  and  showed  Pen  a  long  lean  purse,  with  but  a  few  sovereigns  at 
one  end  of  it. 

"  But  how  do  you  fill  it  ?  "  said  Pen. 

"  I  write,"  said  Warrington.  "  I  don't  tell  the  world  that  I  do  so," 
he  added,  with  a  blush.  "  I  do  not  choose  that  questions  should  be 
asked:  or,  perhaps,  I  am  an  ass,  and  don't  wish  it  to  be  said  that 
George  Warrington  writes  for  bread.  But  I  write  in  the  Law  Reviews : 
look  here,  these  articles  are  mine."     And  he  turned  over  some  sheets. 


PENDENNIS.  303 

"  I  write  in  a  newspaper  now  and  then,  of  which  a  friend  of  mine  is 
editor."  And  Warrington,  going  with  Pendennis  to  the  club  one  day, 
called  for  a  file  of  the  "  Dawn,"  and  pointed  with  his  finger  silently  to 
one  or  two  articles,  which  Pen  read  with  delight.  He  had  no  difficulty 
in  recognising  the  style  afterwards — the  strong  thoughts  and  curt 
periods,  the  sense,  the  satire,  and  the  scholarship. 

"  1  am  not  up  to  this,"  said  Pen,  with  a  genuine  admiration  of  his 
friend's  powers.  "  I  know  very  little  about  politics  or  history,  War- 
rington ;  and  have  but  a  smattering  of  letters.  I  can't  fly  upon  such  a 
wing  as  yours." 

"  But  you  can  on  your  own,  my  boy,  which  is  lighter,  and  soars 
higher,  perhaps,"  the  other  said,  good-naturedly.  Those  little  scraps 
and  verses  which  I  have  seen  of  yours  show  me,  what  is  rare  in  these 
days,  a  natural  gift,  sir.  You  needn't  blush,  you  conceited  young  jack- 
anapes. You  have  thought  so  yourself  any  time  these  ten  years.  You 
have  got  the  sacred  flame — a  little  of  the  real  poetical  fire,  sir,  I  think; 
and  all  our  oil-lamps  are  nothing,  compared  to  that,  though  ever  so 
well  trimmed.  You  are  a  poet.  Pen,  my  boy,"  and  so  speaking,  War- 
rington stretched  out  his  broad  hand,  and  clapped  Pen  on  the  shoulder. 

Arthur  was  so  delighted  that  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes.  "  How 
kind  you  are  to  me,  Warrington  !"  he  said. 

"  I  like  you,  old  boy,"  said  the  other.  "  I  was  dev'lish  lonely  in 
chambers  and  wanted  somebody,  and  the  sight  of  your  honest  face 
somehow  pleased  me.  I  liked  the  way  you  laughed  at  Lowton — that 
poor  good  little  snob.  And,  in  fine,  the  reason  why  I  cannot  tell — but 
so  it  is,  young  'un.  I'm  alone  in  the  world,  sir ;  and  I  wanted  some  one 
to  keep  me  company ; "  and  a  glance  of  extreme  kindness  and  melan- 
choly passed  out  of  Warrington's  dark  eyes. 

Pen  was  too  much  pleased  with  his  own  thoughts  to  perceive  the 
sadness  of  the  friend  who  was  complimenting  him.  "  Thank  you, 
Warrington,"  he  said,  "  thank  you  for  your  friendship  to  me,  and — and 
what  you  say  about  me.  I  have  often  thought  I  was  a  poet,  I  will  be 
one — I  think  I  am  one,  as  you  say  so,  though  the  world  mayn't.  Is  it 
— is  it  the  Ariadne  in  Naxos  which  you  liked  (I  was  only  eighteen  when 
I  wrote  it),  or  the  Prize  Poem  1 " 

Warrington  bursts  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "  Why,  you  young 
goose,"  he  yelled  out — "  of  all  the  miserable  weak  rubbish  I  ever  tried, 
Ariadne  in  Naxos  is  the  most  mawkish  and  disgusting.  The  Prize 
Poem  is  so  pompous  and  feeble,  that  I'm  positively  surprised,  sir,  it 
didn't  get  the  medal.  You  don't  suppose  that  you  are  a  serious  poet, 
do  you,  and  are  going  to  cut  out  Milton  and  ^schylus.^  Are  you 
setting  up  to  be  a  Pindar,  you  absurd  little  tom-tit,  and  fancy  you  have 
the  strength  and  pinion  which  the  Theban  eagle  bear,  sailing  with 
supreme  dominion  through  the  azure  fields  of  air?     No,   my  boy,  I 


304      '  PENDENNIS. 

think  you  can  write  a  magazine  article,  and  turn  out  a  pretty  copy  of 
verses  ;  that's  what  I  think  of  you." 

"By  Jove! "said  Pen,  bouncing  up  and  stamping  his  foot,  "I'll 
show  you  that  I  am  a  better  man  than  you  think  for." 

Warrington  only  laughed  the  more,  and  blew  twenty-four  puffs 
rapidly  out  of  his  pipe  by  way  of  reply  to  Pen. 

An  opportunity  for  showing  his  skill  presented  itself  before  very 
lono-.  That  eminent  publisher,  Mr.  Bacon  (formerly  Bacon  and  Bun- 
gay) of  Paternoster  Row,  besides  being  the  proprietor  of  the  Legal 
Review,  in  which  Mr.  Warrington  wrote,  and  of  other  periodicals  of 
note  and  gravity,  used  to  present  to  the  world  every  year  a  beautiful 
gilt  volume  called  the  "  Spring  Annual,"  edited  by  the  Lady  Violet 
Lebas,  and  numbering  amongst  its  contributors  not  only  the  most 
eminent,  but  the  most  fashionable,  poets  of  our  time.  Young  Lord 
Dodo's  poems  first  appeared  in  this  miscellany  —  the  Honourable 
Percy  Popjoy,  whose  chivalrous  ballads  have  obtained  him  such  a 
reputation — Bedwin  Sands's  Eastern  Ghazuls,  and  many  more  of  the 
works  of  our  young  nobles  were  first  given  to  the  world  in  the  "  Spring 
Annual,"  which  has  since  shared  the  fate  of  other  vernal  blossoms,  and 
perished  out  of  the  world.  The  book  was  daintily  illustrated  with 
pictures  of  reigning  beauties,  or  other  prints  of  a  tender  and  volup- 
tuous character;  and,  as  these  plates  were  prepared  long  beforehand, 
requiring  much  time  in  engraving,  it  was  the  eminent  poets  who  had  to 
write  to  the  plates,  and  not  the  painters  who  illustrated  the  poems. 

One  day,  just  when  this  volume  was  on  the  eve  of  publication,  it 
chanced  that  Mr.  Warrington  called  in  Paternoster  Row  to  talk  with 
Mr.  Hack,  Mr.  Bacon's  reader  and  general  manager  of  publications — 
for  Mr.  Bacon,  not  having  the  least  taste  in  poetry  or  in  literature  of 
any  kind,  wisely  employed  the  services  of  a  professional  gentleman. 
Warrington,  then,  going  into  Mr.  Hack's  room  on  business  of  his  own, 
found  that  gentleman  with  a  bundle  of  proof  plates  and  sheets  of  the 
"  Spring  Annual"  before  him,  and  glanced  at  some  of  them. 

Percy  Popjoy  had  written  some  verses  to  illustrate  one  of  the 
pictures,  which  was  called  the  Church  Porch.  A  Spanish  damsel  was 
hastening  to  church  with  a  large  prayer-book ;  a  youth  in  a  cloak 
was  hidden  in  a  niche  watching  this  young  woman.  The  picture  was 
pretty :  but  the  great  genius  of  Percy  Popjoy  had  deserted  him,  for  he 
had  made  the  most  execrable  verses  which  ever  were  perpetrated  by  a 
young  nobleman. 

Warrington  burst  out  laughing  as  he  read  the  poem :  and  Mr.  Hack 
laughed  too,  but  with  rather  a  rueful  face. — "  It  won't  do,"  he  said, 
"  the  public  won't  stand  it.  Bungay's  people  are  going  to  bring  out  a 
very  good  book,  and  have  set  up  Miss  Bunion  against  Lady  Violet. 


PENDENNIS.  305 

We  have  most  titles  to  be  sure — but  the  verses  are  too  bad.  Lady 
Violet  herself  owns  it;  she's  busy  with  her  own  poem;  what's  to  be 
done  ?  We  can't  lose  the  plate.  The  governor  gave  sixty  pounds 
for  it!" 

"  I  know  a  fellow  who  would  do  some  verses,  I  think,"  said  War- 
rington. "  Let  me  take  the  plate  home  in  my  pocket :  and  send  to  my 
chambers  in  the  morning  for  the  verses.    You'll  pay  well,  of  course  ?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Hack;  and  Warrington,  having  dispatched 
his  own  business,  went  home  to  Mr.  Pen,  plate  in  hand. 

"  Now,  boy,  here's  a  chance  for  you.  Turn  me  off  a  copy  of 
verses  to  this." 

"  What's  this  ?  A  Church  Porch— A  lady  entering  it,  and  a  youth 
out  of  a  wine-shop  window  ogling  her. — What  the  deuce  am  I  to  do 
with  it  ? " 

"  Try,"  said  Warrington.  "  Earn  your  livelihood  for  once,  you  who 
long  so  to  do  it." 

"  Well,  I  will  try,"  said  Pen. 

"  And  I'll  go  out  to  dinner,"  said  Warrington,  and  left  Mr.  Pen  in 
a  brown  study. 

When  Warrington  came  home  that  night,  at  a  very  late  hour,  the 
verses  were  done.  "  There  they  are,"  said  Pen.  "  I've  screwed  'em 
out  at  last.     I  think  they'll  do." 

"  I  think  they  will,"  said  Warrington,  after  reading  them;  they  ran 
as  follows : — 

"  Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Sometimes  I  hover, 
And  at  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout 

And  noise  and  humming: 
They've  stopp'd  the  chiming  bell, 
I  hear  the  organ's  swell — 

She's  coming,  she's  coming! 

My  lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast, 

And  hastening  hither, 
"With  modest  eyes  downcast. 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  past 

May  Heaven  go  with  her! 

20 


3o6  PENDENNIS. 

Kneel  undisturb'd,  fair  saint, 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly. 
I  will  not  enter  there, 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute, 
Like  outcast  spirits,  who  wait 
And  see  thiough  Heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it.  " 

"  Have  you  got  any  more,  young  fellow  ? "  asked  Warrington. 
"  We  must  make  them  give  you  a  couple  of  guineas  a  page ;  and  if 
the  verses  are  liked,  why,  you'll  get  an  entree  into  Bacon's  magazines, 
and  may  turn  a  decent  penny." 

Pen  examined  his  portfolio  and  found  another  ballad  which  he 
thought  might  figure  with  advantage  in  the  "  Spring  Annual,"  and 
consigning  these  two  precious  documents  to  Warrington,  the  pair 
walked  from  the  Temple  to  the  famous  haunt  of  the  Muses  and  their 
masters,  Paternoster  Row.  Bacon's  shop  was  an  ancient  low-browed 
building,  with  a  few  of  the  books  published  by  the  firm  displayed  in 
the  windows,  under  a  bust  of  my  Lord  of  Verulam,  and  the  name  of 
Mr.  Bacon  in  brass  on  the  private  door.  Exactly  opposite  to  Bacon's 
house  was  that  of  Mr.  Bungay,  which  was  newly  painted  and  elabo- 
rately decorated  in  the  style  of  the  seventeenth  century,  so  that  you 
might  have  fancied  stately  Mr.  Evelyn  passing  over  the  threshold,  or 
curious  Mr.  Pepys  examining  the  books  in  the  window.  Warrington 
went  into  the  shop  of  Mr.  Bacon,  but  Pen  stayed  without.  It  was 
agreed  that  his  ambassador  should  act  for  him  entirely;  and  the 
young  fellow  paced  up  and  down  the  street  in  a  very  nervous  con- 
dition, until  he  should  learn  the  result  of  the  negotiation.  Many  a 
poor  devil  before  him  has  trodden  those  flags,  with  similar  cares  and 
anxieties  at  his  heels,  his  bread  and  his  fame  dependent  upon  the 
sentence  of  his  magnanimous  patrons  of  the  Row.  Pen  looked  at  all 
the  wonders  of  all  the  shops ;  and  the  strange  variety  of  literature 
which  they  exhibit.  In  this  were  displayed  black-letter  volumes  and 
books  in  the  clear  pale  types  of  Aldus  and  Elzevir :  in  the  next,  you 
might  see  the  "  Penny  Horrific  Register,"  the  "  Halfpenny  Annals 
of  Crime,"  and  "  History  of  the  most  celebrated  murderers  of  all 
countries,"  "The  Raff's  Magazine,"  "The  Larky  Swell,"  and  other 
publications  of  the  penny  press ;  whilst  at  the  next  window,  portraits 
of  ill-favoured  individuals,  with  fac-similes  of  the  venerated  signatures 
of  the  Reverend  Grimes  Wapshot,  the  Reverend  Elias  Howie,  and  the 


PENDENNIS.  307 

works  written  and  the  sermons  preached  by  them,  showed  the  British 
Dissenter  where  he  could  find  mental  pabulum.  Hard  by  would  be 
a  little  casement  hung  with  emblems,  with  medals  and  rosaries,  with 
little  paltry  prints  of  saints  gilt  and  painted,  and  books  of  controversial 
theology,  by  which  the  faithful  of  the  Roman  opinion  might  learn  a 
short  way  to  deal  with  Protestants,  at  a  penny  a  piece,  or  ninepence 
the  dozen  for  distribution ;  whilst  in  the  very  next  window  you  might 
see  "  Come  out  of  Rome,"  a  sermon  preached  at  the  opening  of  the 
Shepherd's  Bush  College,  by  John  Thomas,  Lord  Bishop  of  Ealing. 
Scarce  an  opinion  but  has  its  expositor  and  its  place  of  exhibition 
in  this  peaceful  old  Paternoster  Row,  under  the  toll  of  the  bells  of 
Saint  Paul. 

Pen  looked  in  at  all  the  windows  and  shops,  as  a  gentleman,  who 
is  going  to  have  an  interview  with  the  dentist,  examines  the  books  on 
the  waiting-room  table.  He  remembered  them  afterwards.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  Warrington  would  never  come  out ;  and  indeed  the  latter 
was  engaged  for  some  time  in  pleading  his  friend's  cause. 

Pen's  natural  conceit  would  have  swollen  immensely  if  he  could 
but  have  heard  the  report  which  Warrington  gave  of  him.  It  hap- 
pened that  Mr.  Bacon  himself  had  occasion  to  descend  to  Mr.  Hack's 
room  whilst  Warrington  was  talking  there,  and  Warrington,  knowing 
Bacon's  weaknesses,  acted  upon  them  with  great  adroitness  in  his 
friend's  behalf.  In  the  first  place,  he  put  on  his  hat  to  speak  to  Bacon, 
and  addressed  him  from  the  table  on  which  he  seated  himself.  Bacon 
liked  to  be  treated  with  rudeness  by  a  gentleman,  and  used  to  pass  it 
on  to  his  inferiors  as  boys  pass  the  mark.  "  What  !  not  know  Mr. 
Pendennis,  Mr.  Bacon } "  Warrington  said.  "  You  can't  live  much  in 
the  world,  or  you  would  know  him.  A  man  of  property  in  the  West, 
of  one  of  the  most  ancient  famihes  in  England,  related  to  half  the 
nobility  in  the  empire — he's  cousin  to  Lord  Pontypool — he  was  one  of 
the  most  distinguished  men  at  Oxbridge;  he  dines  at  Gaunt  House 
every  week." 

"  Law  bless  me,  you  don't  say  so,  sir  ?  Well— really — Law  bless 
me  now,"  said  Mr.  Bacon. 

"  I  have  just  been  showing  Mr.  Hack  some  of  his  verses,  which  he 
sat  up  last  night,  at  my  request,  to  write;  and  Hack  talks  about 
giving  him  a  copy  of  the  book — the  what-d'-you-call-'em." 

"  Lord  •  bless  me  now,  does  he  ?  The  what-d'-you-call-'em. 
Indeed  ! " 

" '  The  Spring  Annual '  is  its  name, — as  payment  for  these  verses. 
You  don't  suppose  that  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  gives  up 
a  dinner  at  Gaunt  House  for  nothing  ?  You  know,  as  well  as  any- 
body, that  the  men  of  fashion  want  to  be  paid." 

"That  they  do,  Mr.  Warrington,  sir,"  said  the  publisher. 


3oS  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  tell  you  he's  a  star ;  hell  make  a  name,  sir.  He's  a  new 
man,  sir." 

"  They've  said  that  of  so  many  of  those  young  swells,  Mr.  War- 
rington," the  publisher  interposed,  with  a  sigh.  "  There  was  Lord 
Viscount  Dodo,  now ;  I  gave  his  lordship  a  good  bit  of  money  for  his 
poems,  and  only  sold  eighty  copies.  Mr.  Popjoy's  Hadgincourt,  sir, 
fell  dead." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  take  my  man  over  to  Bungay,"  Warrington  said, 
and  rose  from  the  table.  This  threat  was  too  much  for  Mr.  Bacon, 
who  was  instantly  ready  to  accede  to  any  reasonable  proposal  of 
Mr.  Warrington's,  and  finally  asked  his  manager  what  those  proposals 
were  ?  When  he  heard  that  the  negotiation  only  related  as  yet  to  a 
couple  of  ballads,  which  Mr.  Warrington  offered  for  the  "  Spring 
Annual,"  Mr.  Bacon  said,  "  Law  bless  you,  give  him  a  cheque 
directly;"  and  with  this  paper  Warrington  went  out  to  his  friend, 
and  placed  it,  grinning,  in  Pen's  hands.  Pen  was  as  elated  as  if  some- 
body had  left  him  a  fortune.  He  offered  Warrington  a  dinner  at 
Richmond  instantly.  "  What  should  he  go  and  buy  for  Laura  and 
his  mother.''     He  must  buy  something  for  them." 

"  They'll  like  the  book  better  than  anything  else,"  said  Warrington, 
"  with  the  young  one's  name  to  the  verses,  printed  among  the  swells." 

"  Thank  God !  thank  God !  "  cried  Arthur,  "  I  needn't  be  a  charge 
upon  the  old  mother.  I  can  pay  off  Laura  now.  I  can  get  my  own 
living.     I  can  make  my  own  way." 

"  I  can  marry  the  grand  vizier's  daughter :  I  can  purchase  a  house 
in  Belgrave  Square;  I  can  build  a  fine  castle  in  the  air,"  said  War- 
rington, pleased  with  the  others  exultation.  "  Well,  you  may  get 
bread  and  cheese,  Pen :  and  I  own  it  tastes  well,  the  bread  which  you 
earn  yourself" 

They  had  a  magnum  of  claret  at  dinner  at  the  club  that  day,  at 
Pen's  charges.  It  was  long  since  he  had  indulged  in  such  a  luxury, 
but  Warrington  would  not  baulk  him :  and  they  drank  together  to  the 
health  of  the  "  Spring  Annual." 

It  never  rains,  but  it  pours,  according  to  the  proverb;  so  ver}- 
speedily  another  chance  occurred,  by  which  Mr.  Pen  was  to  be 
helped  in  his  scheme  of  making  a  livelihood.  Warrington  one  day 
threw  him  a  letter  across  the  table,  which  was  brought  by  a  printer's 
boy,  "from  Captain  Shandon,  sir" — the  little  emissary  said:  and 
then  went  and  fell  asleep  on  his  accustomed  bench  in  the  passage. 
He  paid  many  a  subsequent  visit  there,  and  brought  many  a  message 
to  Pen. 

"  F.  P.   Tuesday  Marniitg. 
"  My  dear  Sir,— Bungay  will  be  here  to-day,  about  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette.' 
You  would  be  the  very  man  to  help  us  'vii/i  a  genuine  West-end  article,— yo\x 


PENDENNIS.  309 

understand — dashing,  trenchant,  and  d aristocratic.      Lady  Hipshaw  will 

write  :  but  she's  not  much  you  know,  and  we've  two  lords ;  but  the  less  they  do 
the  better.  We  must  have  you.  We'll  give  you  your  own  terms,  and  we'll 
make  a  hit  with  the  '  Gazette.' 

"  Shall  B.  come  and  see  you,  or  can  you  look  in  upon  me  here? 

"  Ever  yours, 

"C.  S." 

"  Some  more  opposition,"  Warrington  said,  when  Pen  had  read 
the  note.  "  Bungay  and  Bacon  are  at  daggers  drawn ;  each  married 
the  sister  of  the  other,  and  they  were  for  some  time  the  closest  friends 
and  partners.  Hack  says  it  was  Mrs.  Bungay  who  caused  all  the 
mischief  between  the  two ;  whereas  Shandon,  who  reads  for  Bungay 
a  good  deal,  says  Mrs.  Bacon  did  the  business ;  but  I  don't  know 
which  is  right,  Peachum  or  Lockit.  Since  they  have  separated,  it  is 
a  furious  war  between  the  two  publishers ;  and  no  sooner  does  one 
bring  out  a  book  of  travels,  or  poems,  a  magazine  or  periodical, 
quarterly,  or  monthly,  or  weekly,  or  annual,  but  the  rival  is  in  the 
field  with  something  similar.  I  have  heard  poor  Shandon  tell  with 
great  glee  how  he  made  Bungay  give  a  grand  dinner  at  Blackwall  to 
all  his  writers,  by  saying  that  Bacon  had  invited  his  corps  to  an  enter- 
tainment at  Greenwich.  When  Bungay  engaged  your  celebrated 
friend  Mr.  Wagg  to  edit  the  '  Londoner,'  Bacon  straightway  rushed 
off  and  secured  Mr,  Grindle  to  give  his  name  to  the  '  Westminster 
Magazine.'  When  Bacon  brought  out  his  comic  Irish  novel  of 
'  Barney  Brallaghan,'  off  went  Bungay  to  Dublin,  and  produced  his 
rollicking  Hibernian  story  of  '  Looney  MacTwolter.'  When  Doctor 
Hicks  brought  out  his  'Wanderings  in  Mesopotamia'  under  Bacon's 
auspices,  Bungay  produced  Professor  Sadiman's  '  Researches  in 
Zahara  ; '  and  Bungay  is  publishing  his  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette '  as  a  coun- 
terpoise to  Bacon's  '  Whitehall  Review.'  Let  us  go  and  hear  about 
the  '  Gazette.'  There  may  be  a  place  for  you  in  it,  Pen,  my  boy.  We 
will  go  and  see  Shandon.     We  are  sure  to  find  him  at  home." 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?"  asked  Pen. 

"  In  the  Fleet  Prison,"  Warrington  said.  "  And  very  much  at 
home  he  is  there,  too.     He  is  the  king  of  the  place." 

Pen  had  never  seen  this  scene  of  London  life,  and  walked  with  no 
small  interest  in  at  the  grim  gate  of  that  dismal  edifice.  They  went 
through  the  ante-room,  where  the  officers  and  janitors  of  the  place 
were  seated,  and  passing  in  at  the  wicket,  entered  the  prison.  The 
noise  and  the  crowd,  the  life  and  the  shouting,  the  shabby  bustle  of 
the  place,  struck  and  excited  Pen.  People  moved  about  ceaselessly 
and  restless,  like  caged  animals  in  a  menagerie.  Men  were  playing 
at  fives.  Others  pacing  and  tramping :  this  one  in  colloquy  with  his 
lawyer  in  dingy  black— that  one  walking  sadly,  with  his  wife  by  his 


310  PEiWDENNIS. 

side,  and  a  child  on  his  arm.  Some  were  arrayed  in  tattered  dressing- 
gowns,  and  had  a  look  of  rakish  fashion.  Everybody  seemed  to  be 
busy,  humming,  and  on  the  move.  Pen  felt  as  if  he  choked  in  the 
place,  and  as  if  the  door  being  locked  upon  him,  they  never  would  let 
him  out. 

They  went  through  a  court  up  a  stone  staircase,  and  through 
passages  full  of  people,  and  noise,  and  cross  lights,  and  black  doors 
clapping  and  banging ; — Pen  feeling  as  one  does  in  a  feverish  morning- 
dream.  At  last  the  same  little  runner  who  had  brought  Shandon's 
note,  and  had  followed  them  down  Fleet  Street  munching  apples,  and 
who  showed  the  way  to  the  two  gentlemen  through  the  prison,  said, 
"  This  is  the  Captain's  door,"  and  Mr.  Shandon's  voice  from  within 
bade  them  enter. 

The  room,  though  bare,  Avas  not  uncheerful.  The  sun  was  shining 
in  at  the  window — near  which  sate  a  lady  at  work,  who  had  been  gay 
and  beautiful  once,  but  in  whose  faded  face  kindness  and  tenderness 
still  beamed.  Through  all  his  errors  and  reckless  mishaps  and  mis- 
fortunes, this  faithful  creature  adored  her  husband,  and  thought  him 
the  best  and  cleverest,  as  indeed  he  was  one  of  the  kindest  of  men. 
Nothing  ever  seemed  to  disturb  the  sweetness  of  his  temper;  not 
debts  ;  not  duns  :  not  misery :  not  the  bottle :  not  his  wife's  unhappy 
position,  or  his  children's  ruined  chances.  He  was  perfectly  fond  of 
wife  and  children  after  his  fashion :  he  always  had  the  kindest  words 
and  smiles  for  them,  and  ruined  them  with  the  utmost  sweetness  of 
temper.  He  never  could  refuse  himself  or  any  man  any  enjojTnent 
which  his  money  could  purchase ;  he  would  share  his  last  guinea  with 
Jack  and  Tom,  and  we  may  be  sure  he  had  a  score  of  such  retainers. 
He  would  sign  his  name  at  the  back  of  any  man's  bill,  and  never  pay 
any  debt  of  his  own.  He  would  write  on  any  side,  and  attack  himself 
or  another  man  with  equal  indifference.  He  was  one  of  the  wittiest, 
the  most  amiable,  and  the  most  incorrigible  of  Irishmen.  Nobody 
could  help  liking  Charley  Shandon  who  saw  him  once,  and  those  whom 
he  ruined  could  scarcely  be  angry  with  him. 

When  Pen  and  Warrington  arrived,  the  Captain  (he  had  been  in 
an  Irish  militia  regiment  once,  and  the  title  remained  with  him)  was 
sitting  on  his  bed  in  a  torn  dressing-gown,  with  a  desk  on  his  knees, 
at  which  he  was  scribbling  as  fast  as  his  rapid  pen  could  wi  ite.  Slip 
after  slip  of  paper  fell  off  the  desk  w^et  on  to  the  ground.  A  picture  of 
his  children  was  hung  up  over  his  bed,  and  the  youngest  of  them  was 
pattering  about  the  room. 

Opposite  the  Captain  sate  Mr.  Bungay,  a  portly  man  of  stolid 
countenance,  with  whom  the  little  child  had  been  trying  a  conver- 
sation. 

"  Papa's  a  verj'  clever  man,"  said  she ;  "  mamma  says  so." 


PENDENNIS.  311 

"  Oh,  very,"  said  Mr.  Bungay. 

"  And  you're  a  very  rich  man,  Mr.  Bundy,"  cried  the  child,  who 
could  hardly  speak  plain. 

"  Mary ! "  said  Mamma,  from  her  work. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  Bungay  roared  out  with  a  great  laugh  ;  "  no 
harm  in  saying  I'm  rich — he,  he — I  am  pretty  well  off,  my  little  dear," 

"  If  you're  rich,  why  don't  you  take  papa  out  of  piz'n  ?"  asked  the 
child. 

Mamma  at  this  began  to  wipe  her  eyes  with  the  work  on  which 
she  was  employed.  (The  poor  lady  had  hung  curtains  up  in  the 
room,  had  brought  the  children's  picture  and  placed  it  there,  and  had 
made  one  or  two  attempts  to  ornament  it.)  Mamma  began  to  cry; 
Mr.  Bungay  turned  red,  and  looked  fiercely  out  of  his  bloodshot  little 
eyes ;  Shandon's  pen  went  on,  and  Pen  and  Warrington  arrived  with 
their  knock. 

Captain  Shandon  looked  up  from  his  work.  "  How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Warrington,"  he  said.  "  I'll  speak  to  you  in  a  minute.  Please 
sit  down,  gentlemen,  if  you  can  find  places,"  and  away  went  the  pen 
again. 

Warrington  pulled  forward  an  old  portmanteau — the  only  available 
seat — and  sate  down  on  it  with  a  bow  to  Mrs.  Shandon,  and  a  nod  to 
Bungay  ;  the  child  came  and  looked  at  Pen  solemnly  ;  and  in  a  couple 
of  minutes  the  swift  scribbling  ceased ;  and  Shandon,  turning  the  desk 
over  on  the  bed,  stopped  and  picked  up  the  papers. 

"  I  think  this  will  do,"  said  he.  "  It's  the  prospectus  for  the  '  Pall 
Mall  Gazette.' " 

"And  here's  the  money  for  it,"  Mr.  Bungay  said,  laying  down  a 
five-pound  note.  "  I'm  as  good  as  my  word,  I  am.  When  I  say  I'll 
pay,  I  pay." 

"  Faith  that's  more  than  some  of  us  can  say,"  said  Shandon,  and 
he  eagerly  clapped  the  note  into  his  pocket. 


312  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XXXI I. 
WHICH   IS  PASSED   IX  THE   NEIGHBOURHOOD   OF  LUDGATE   HILL. 

OUR  imprisoned  Captain  announced,  in  smart  and  emphatic 
language  in  his  prospectus,  that  the  time  had  come  at  last  when 
it  was  necessar)-  for  the  gentlemen  of  England  to  band  together  in 
defence  of  their  common  rights  and  their  glorious  order,  menaced  on 
all  sides  by  foreign  revolutions,  by  intestine  radicalism,  by  the  artful 
calumnies  of  mill-owners  and  cotton-lords,  and  the  stupid  hostility  of 
the  masses  whom  they  gulled  and  led.  "  The  ancient  monarchy  was 
insulted,"  the  Captain  said,  "  by  a  ferocious  republican  rabble.  The 
Church  was  deserted  by  envious  dissent,  and  undermined  by  stealthy 
infidelity.  The  good  institutions,  which  had  made  our  country  glorious, 
and  the  name  of  English  Gentlemen  the  proudest  in  the  world,  were 
left  without  defence,  and  exposed  to  assault  and  contumely  from  men 
to  whom  no  sanctuary'  was  sacred,  for  they  believed  in  nothing  holy  ; 
no  histor)-  venerable,  for  they  were  too  ignorant  to  have  heard  of  the 
past ;  and  no  law  was  binding  which  they  were  strong  enough  to 
break,  when  their  leaders  gave  the  signal  for  plunder.  It  was  because 
the  kings  of  France  mistrusted  their  gentlemen,"  Mr.  Shandon  re- 
marked, "  that  the  monarchy  of  Saint  Louis  went  down :  it  was  because 
the  people  of  England  still  believed  in  their  gentlemen,  that  this 
country  encountered  and  overcame  the  greatest  enemy  a  nation  ever 
met :  it  was  because  we  were  headed  by  gentlemen  that  the  Eagles 
retreated  before  us  from  the  Douro  to  the  Garonne:  it  was  a  gentle- 
man who  broke  the  line  at  Trafalgar,  and  swept  the  plain  of 
Waterioo." 

Bungay  nodded  his  head  in  a  knowing  manner,  and  winked  his 
eyes  when  the  Captain  came  to  the  Waterloo  passage :  and  Warrington 
burst  out  laughing. 

"  You  see  how  our  venerable  friend  Bungay  is  affected,"  Shandon 
said,  slily  looking  up  from  his  papers — "  that's  your  true  sort  of  test. 
I  have  used  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  the  battle  of  Waterloo  a 
hundred  times :  and  I  never  knew  the  Duke  to  fail." 

The  Captain  then  went  on  to  confess,  with  much  candour,  that  up 
to  the  present  time  the  gentlemen  of  England,  confident  of  their  right, 
and  careless  of  those  who  questioned  it,  had  left  the  political  interest 


PENDEXNIS.  313 

of  their  order  as  they  did  the  management  of  their  estates,  or  the 
settlement  of  their  legal  affairs,  to  persons  affected  to  each  peculiar 
service,  and  had  permitted  their  interests  to  be  represented  in  the 
press  by  professional  proctors  and  advocates.  That  time  Shandon 
professed  to  consider  was  now  gone  by :  the  gentlemen  of  England 
must  be  their  own  champions :  the  declared  enemies  of  their  order 
were  bvave,  strong,  numerous,  and  uncompromising.  They  must  meet 
their  foes  in  the  field  :  they  must  not  be  belied  and  misrepresented  by 
hireling  advocates  :  they  must  not  have  Grub  Street  publishing  Gazettes 
from  Whitehall :  "  That's  a  dig  at  Bacon's  people,  Mr.  Bungay,"  said 
Shandon,  turning  round  to  the  publisher. 

Bungay  clapped  his  stick  on  the  floor,  "  Hang  him,  pitch  into 
him,  Capting,"  he  said  with  exultation:  and  turning  to  Warrington, 
wagged  his  dull  head  more  vehemently  than  ever,  and  said,  "  For  a 
slashing  article,  sir,  there's  nobody  like  the  Capting — no-obody  like 
him." 

The  prospectus-writer  went  on  to  say  that  some  gentlemen,  whose 
names  were,  for  obvious  reasons,  not  brought  before  the  public  (at 
which  Mr.  Warrington  began  to  laugh  again),  had  determined  to  bring 
forward  a  journal,  of  which  the  principles  were  so  and  so.  "  These 
men  are  proud  of  their  order,  and  anxious  to  uphold  it,"  cried  out 
Captain  Shandon,  flourishing  his  paper  with  a  grin.  "  They  are  loyal 
to  their  sovereign,  by  faithful  conviction  and  ancestral  allegiance ;  they 
love  their  Church,  where  they  would  have  their  children  worship,  and 
for  which  their  forefathers  bled ;  they  love  their  country,  and  would 
keep  it  what  the  gentlemen  of  England — yes,  the  gentlemen  of  England 
(we'll  have  that  in  large  caps.,  Bungay,  my  boy)  have  made  it — the 
greatest  and  freest  in  the  world :  and  as  the  names  of  some  of  them 
are  appended  to  the  deed  which  secured  our  liberties  at  Runnymede — " 

"  What's  that?"  asked  Mr.  Bungay. 

"  An  ancestor  of  mine  sealed  it  with  his  sword  hilt,"  Pen  said,  with 
great  gravity. 

"  It's  the  Habeas  Corpus,  Mr.  Bungay,"  Warrington  said,  on  which 
the  publisher  answered,  "  All  right,  I  dare  say,"  and  yawned,  tliough 
he  said,  "  Go  on,  Capting." 

— "  at  Runnymede ;  they  are  ready  to  defend  that  freedom  to-day 
with  sword  and  pen,  and  now,  as  then,  to  rally  round  the  old  laws  and 
liberties  of  England." 

"  Brayvo  ! "  cried  Warrington.  The  little  child  stood  wondering  ; 
the  lady  was  working  silently,  and  looking  with  fond  admiration. 
"  Come  here,  little  Mary,"  said  Warrington,  and  patted  the  child's  fair 
curls  with  his  large  hand.  But  she  shrank  back  from  his  rough  caress, 
and  preferred  to  go  and  take  refuge  at  Pen's  knee,  and  play  with  his 
fine  watch-chain :  and  Pen  was  very  much  pleased  that  she  came  to 


314  PENDENNIS. 

him  ;  for  he  was  very  soft-hearted  and  simple,  though  he  concealed  his 
gentleness  under  a  shy  and  pompous  demeanour.  So  she  clambered 
up  on  his  lap,  whilst  her  father  continued  to  read  his  programme. 

"  You  were  laughing,"  the  Captain  said  to  Warrington,  "  about 
'  the  obvious  reasons,'  which  I  mentioned.  Now,  I'll  show  ye  what 
they  are,  ye  unbelieving  heathen.  '  We  have  said,' "  he  went  on, 
"  *  that  we  cannot  give  the  names  of  the  parties  engaged  in  this  under- 
taking, and  that  there  were  obvious  reasons  for  that  concealment.  We 
number  influential  friends  in  both  Houses  of  the  Senate,  and  have 
secured  allies  in  every  diplomatic  circle  in  Europe.  Our  sources  of 
intelligence  are  such  as  cannot,  by  any  possibility,  be  made  public — 
and,  indeed,  such  as  no  other  London  or  European  journal  could,  by 
any  chance,  acquire.  But  this  we  are  free  to  say,  that  the  very  earliest 
information  connected  with  the  movement  of  English  and  Continental 
politics,  will  be  found  ONLY  in  the  columns  of  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette.' 
The  Statesman  and  the  Capitalist,  the  Country  Gentleman,  and  the 
Divine,  will  be  amongst  our  readers,  because  our  writers  are  amongst 
them.  We  address  ourselves  to  the  higher  circles  of  society :  we  care 
not  to  disown  it — the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette '  is  ^vritten  by  gentlemen  for 
gentlemen ;  its  conductors  speak  to  the  classes  in  which  they  live  and 
were  born.  The  field-preacher  has  his  journal,  the  radical  free-thinker 
has  his  journal :  why  should  the  Gentlemen  of  England  be  unrepre- 
sented in  the  Press  ? '  " 

Mr.  Shandon  then  went  on  with  much  modesty  to  descant  upon 
the  literar}'  and  fashionable  departments  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette," 
which  were  to  be  conducted  by  gentlemen  of  acknowledged  reputa- 
tion ;  men  famous  at  the  Universities  (at  which  Mr.  Pendennis  could 
scarcely  help  laughing  and  blushing),  known  at  the  Clubs  and  of  the 
Society  which  they  described.  He  pointed  out  delicately  to  advertisers 
that  there  would  be  no  such  medium  as  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette  "  for 
giving  publicity  to  their  sales  ;  and  he  eloquently  called  upon  the 
nobility  of  England,  the  baronetage  of  England,  the  revered  clergy  of 
England,  the  bar  of  England,  the  matrons,  the  daughters,  the  homes 
and  hearths  of  England,  to  rally  round  the  good  old  cause;  and 
Bungay  at  the  conclusion  of  the  reading  woke  up  from  a  second  snooze 
in  which  he  had  indulged  himself,  and  again  said  it  was  all  right. 

The  reading  of  the  prospectus  concluded,  the  gentlemen  present 
entered  into  some  details  regarding  the  political  and  literary'  manage- 
ment of  the  paper,  and  Mr.  Bungay  sate  by  listening  and  nodding  his 
head,  as  if  he  understood  what  was  the  subject  of  their  conversation, 
and  approved  of  their  opinions.  Bungay's  opinions,  in  truth,  were 
pretty  simple.  He  thought  the  Captain  could  write  the  best  smashing 
article  in  England.  He  wanted  the  opposition  house  of  Bacon  smashed, 
and  it  was  his  opinion  that  the  Captain  could  do  that  business.    If  the 


PENDENNIS.  315 

Captain  had  written  a  letter  of  Junius  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  or  copied  a 
part  of  the  Church  Catechism,  Mr.  Bungay  would  have  been  perfectly 
contented,  and  have  considered  that  the  article  was  a  smashing  article. 
And  he  pocketed  the  papers  with  the  greatest  satisfaction :  and  he  not 
only  paid  for  the  MS.,  as  we  have  seen,  but  he  called  little  Mary  to 
him,  and  gave  her  a  penny  as  he  went  away. 

The  reading  of  the  manuscript  over,  the  party  engaged  in  general 
conversation,  Shandon  leading  with  a  jaunty  fashionable  air  in  compli- 
ment to  the  two  guests  who  sate  with  him,  and  who,  by  their  appear- 
ance and  manner,  he  presumed  to  be  persons  of  the  beau  monde. 
He  knew  very  little  indeed  of  the  great  world,  but  he  had  seen  it,  and 
made  the  most  of  what  he  had  seen.  He  spoke  of  the  characters  of 
the  day,  and  great  personages  of  the  fashion,  with  easy  familiarity  and 
jocular  allusions,  as  if  it  was  his  habit  to  live  amongst  them.  He  told 
anecdotes  of  their  private  life,  and  of  conversations  he  had  had,  and 
entertainments  at  which  he  had  been  present,  and  at  which  such  and 
such  a  thing  occurred.  Pen  was  amused  to  hear  the  shabby  prisoner 
in  a  tattered  dressing-gown  talking  glibly  about  the  great  of  the  land. 
Mrs.  Shandon  was  always  delighted  when  her  husband  told  these  tales, 
and  believed  in  them  fondly  every  one.  She  did  not  want  to  mingle 
in  the  fashionable  world  herself,  she  was  not  clever  enough  ;  but  the 
great  Society  was  the  very  place  for  her  Charles :  he  shone  in  it :  he 
was  respected  in  it.  Indeed,  Shandon  had  once  been  asked  to  dinner 
by  the  Earl  of  X  ;  his  wife  treasured  the  invitation-card  in  her  work- 
box  at  that  very  day. 

Mr.  Bungay  presently  had  enough  pf  this  talk  and  got  up  to  take 
leave,  whereupon  Warrington  and  Pen  rose  to  depart  with  the  pub- 
lisher, though  the  latter  would  have  liked  to  stay  to  make  a  further 
acquaintance  with  this  family,  who  interested  him  and  touched  him. 
He  said  something  about  hoping  for  permission  to  repeat  his  visit, 
upon  which  Shandon,  with  a  rueful  grin,  said  he  was  always  to  be 
found  at  home,  and  should  be  delighted  to  see  Mr.  Pennington. 

"  I'll  see  you  to  my  park-gate,  gentlemen,"  said  Captain  Shandon, 
seizing  his  hat,  in  spite  of  a  deprecatory  look,  and  a  faint  cry  of 
"  Charles"  from  Mrs.  Shandon.  And  the  Captain,  in  shabby  slippers, 
shuffled  out  before  his  guests,  leading  the  way  through  the  dismal 
passages  of  the  prison.  His  hand  was  already  fiddling  with  his 
waistcoat-pocket,  where  Bungay's  five-pound  note  was,  as  he  took 
leave  of  the  three  gentlemen  at  the  wicket ;  one  of  them,  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis,  being  greatly  relieved  when  he  was  out  of  the  horrid  place, 
and  again  freely  treading  the  flags  of  Farringdon  Street. 

Mrs.  Shandon  sadly  went  on  with  her  work  at  the  window  looking 
into  the  court.  She  saw  Shandon  with  a  couple  of  men  at  his  heels 
run  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  the  prison  tavern.     She  had  hoped  to 


3,6  PEXDENNIS. 

have  had  him  to  dinner  herself  that  day :  there  was  a  piece  of  meat, 
and  some  salad  in  a  basin,  on  the  ledge  outside  of  the  window  of  their 
room,  which  she  had  expected  that  she  and  little  Mary  were  to  share 
with  the  child's  father.  But  there  was  no  chance  of  that  now.  He 
would  be  in  that  tavern  until  the  hours  for  closing  it ;  then  he  would 
go  and  play  at  cards  or  drink  in  some  other  man's  room,  and  come 
back  silent,  with  glazed  eyes,  reeling  a  little  in  his  walk,  that  his  wife 
might  nurse  him.  Oh,  what  varieties  of  pain  do  we  not  make  our 
women  suffer. 

So  Mrs.  Shandon  went  to  the  cupboard,  and,  in  lieu  of  a  dinner, 
made  herself  som.e  tea.  And  in  those  varieties  of  pain  of  which  we 
spoke  anon,  what  a  part  of  confidante  has  that  poor  tea-pot  played 
ever  since  the  kindly  plant  was  introduced  among  us !  What  myriads 
of  women  have  cried  over  it,  to  be  sure !  What  sick  beds  it  has 
smoked  by  !  What  fevered  lips  have  received  refreshment  from  out  of 
it!  Nature  meant  very  gently  by  women  when  she  made  that  tea- 
plant.  With  a  little  thought  what  a  series  of  pictures  and  groups  the 
fancy  may  conjure  up  and  assemble  round  the  tea-pot  and  cup. 
Melissa  and  Sacharissa  are  talking  love  secrets  over  it.  Poor  Polly 
has  it  and  her  lover's  letters  upon  the  table;  his  letters  who  was  her 
lover  yesterday,  and  when  it  was  with  pleasure,  not  despair,  she  wept 
over  them.  Mary  comes  tripping  noiselessly  into  her  mother's  bed- 
room, bearing  a  cup  of  the  consoler  to  the  widow  who  will  take  no 
other  food.  Ruth  is  busy  concocting  it  for  her  husband,  who  is  coming 
home  from  the  harvest  field — one  could  fill  a  page  with  hints  for  such 
pictures ; — finally,  Mrs.  Shandon  and  little  Mary  sit  down  and  drink 
their  tea  together,  while  the  Captain  goes  out  and  takes  his  pleasure. 
She  cai-es  for  nothing  else  but  that,  when  her  husband  is  away. 

A  gentleman  with  whom  we  are  already  slightly  acquainted, 
Mr.  Jack  Finucane,  a  townsman  of  Captain  Shandon's,  found  the 
Captain's  wife  and  little  Mary  (for  whom  Jack  always  brought  a 
sweetmeat  in  his  pocket)  over  this  meal.  Jack  thought  Shandon  the 
greatest  of  created  geniuses,  and  had  one  or  two  helps  from  the  good- 
natured  prodigal,  who  had  always  a  kind  word,  and  sometimes  a 
guinea  for  any  friend  in  need  ;  and  never  missed  a  day  in  seeing  his 
patron.  He  was  ready  to  run  Shandon's  errands  and  transact  his 
money-business  with  publishers  and  newspaper  editors,  duns,  cre- 
ditors, holders  of  Shandon's  acceptances,  gentlemen  disposed  to 
speculate  in  those  securities,  and  to  transact  the  thousand  little  affairs 
of  an  embarrassed  Irish  gentleman.  I  never  knew  an  embarrassed 
Irish  gentleman  yet,  but  he  had  an  aide-de-camp  of  his  own  nation, 
likewise  in  circumstances  of  pecuniary  discomfort.  That  aide-de- 
camp has  subordinates  of  his  own,  who  again  may  have  other  in- 
solvent  dependants— ali   through   his  life    our   Captain   marched   at 


ri-lNDENNIS.  317 

the  head  of  a  ragf;c'd  staff,  wlio  shared  in  the  rough  furtuncs  of  thcii 
chieftain. 

"  lie  won't  have  that  five-pound  note  very  long  I  bet  a  guinea," 
Mr.  Bungay  said  of  the  Captain,  as  lie  and  his  two  companions  walked 
away  from  the  prison  ;  and  the  publisher  judged  rigluly,  for  when 
Mrs.  Shandon  came  to  empty  her  husband's  pockets,  she  found  but  a 
couple  of  sliilUngs  and  a  few  lialfpence  out  of  the  morning's  remittance. 
Shandon  liad  given  a  pound  to  one  follower  ;  had  sent  a  leg  of  mutton 
and  potatoes  and  beer  to  an  acquaintance  in  the  poor  side  of  the 
prison  ;  liad  paid  an  outstanding  bill  at  liic  tavern  where  he  had 
changed  liis  five-])ound  note  ;  liad  had  a  dinner  with  two  friends  tiiere, 
to  whom  he  lost  sundry  half-crowns  at  cards  afterwards  ;  so  tiiat  the 
niglit  left  him  as  poor  as  the  morning  had  found  him. 

'I'lie  |)ublisher  and  the  two  gentlemen  liad  had  some  talk  together 
after  quilling  Shandon,  and  Warrington  reiterated  to  liungay  what  he 
had  said  to  his  rival,  Bacon,  viz.,  that  Pen  was  a  high  fellow,  of  great 
genius,  and  what  was  more,  well  with  the  great  world,  and  related  to 
"no  end  "of  the  peerage.  Bung.ay  replied  that  he  should  be  happy 
to  have  dealings  with  Mr.  I'endennis,  and  hoped  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  both  gents  to  cut  mutton  with  him  before  long,  and  so,  with 
mutual  ijoiiteness  and  jirotestations,  they  parted. 

"  It  is  hard  to  see  such  a  man  as  Shandon,"  I'en  said,  musing  and 
talking  that  night  over  the  sight  which  he  had  witnessed,  "of  accom- 
plishments so  multifarious,  and  of  such  an  undoubted  talent  and 
humour,  an  inmate  of  a  gaol  for  half  his  time,  and  a  bookseller's 
hanger-on  when  out  of  prison." 

"  I  am  a  bookseller's  hanger-on — you  are  going  to  try  your  paces 
as  a  hack,"  Warrington  said  with  a  laugh.  "  We  are  all  hacks  upon 
some  road  or  other.  I  would  rather  be  myself,  than  Paley  our  neigh- 
bour in  chambers  :  who  has  as  much  enjoyment  of  his  life  as  a  mole. 
A  deuced  deal  of  undeserved  compassjon  has  been  thrown  away  upon 
what  you  call  ycjur  bookseller's  drudge." 

"  Much  solitary  pipes  and  ale  make  a  cynic  of  you,"  I'en  said. 
"  You  are  a  Diogenes  by  a  beer-barrel,  Warrington.  No  man  shall 
tell  me  that  a  man  of  genius,  as  .Shandon  is,  ought  to  be  driven  by 
such  a  vulgar  slave-driver  as  yonder  Mr.  Ikingay,  whom  we  have  just 
left,  who  fattens  on  the  profits  of  the  other's  brains,  and  enriches 
himself  out  of  his  journeyman's  labour.  It  makes  me  indignant  to 
see  a  gentleman  the  serf  of  such  a  creature  as  tliat,  of  a  man  who 
can't  speak  the  language  that  he  lives  by,  wiio  is  not  fit  to  black 
Shandon's  boots." 

"  So  you  have  begun  already  to  gird  at  the  |)ublishcrs,  and  to  take 
your  side  amongst  our  order.     Bravo,   I'en,  my  boy!"     Warrington 


3iS  PENDENNIS. 

answered,  laughing  still.  "  What  have  you  got  to  say  against  Bungay's 
relations  with  Shandon  ?  Was  it  the  publisher,  think  you,  who  sent 
the  author  to  prison?  Is  it  Bungay  who  is  tippling  away  the  five- 
Dound  note  which  we  saw  just  now,  or  Shandon  ?" 

"  Misfortune  drives  a  man  into  bad  company,"  Pen  said.  "  It  is 
easy  to  cry  '  Fie ! '  against  a  poor  fellow  who  has  no  society  but  such 
as  he  finds  in  a  prison ;  and  no  resource  except  forgetfulness  and  the 
bottle.  We  must  deal  kindly  with  the  eccentricities  of  genius,  and 
remember  that  the  very  ardour  and  enthusiasm  of  temperament  which 
makes  the  author  delightful  often  leads  the  man  astray." 

"  A  fiddlestick  about  men  of  genius  ! "  Warrington  cried  out,  who 
was  a  ver>^  severe  moralist  upon  some  points,  though  possibly  a  very 
bad  practitioner.  "  I  deny  that  there  are  so  many  geniuses  as  people 
who  whimper  about  the  fate  of  men  of  letters  assert  there  are.  There 
are  thousands  of  clever  fellows  in  the  world  who  could,  if  they  would, 
turn  verses,  write  articles,  read  books,  and  deliver  a  judgment  upon 
them ;  the  talk  of  professional  critics  and  writers  is  not  a  whit  more 
brilliant,  or  profound,  or  amusing,  than  that  of  any  other  society  of 
educated  people.  If  a  lawyer,  or  a  soldier,  or  a  parson,  outruns  his 
income,  and  does  not  pay  his  bills,  he  must  go  to  gaol ;  and  an  author 
must  go,  too.  If  an  author  fuddles  himself,  I  don't  know  why  he 
should  be  let  off  a  headache  the  next  morning, — if  he  orders  a  coat 
from  the  tailor's,  why  he  shouldn't  pay  for  it." 

"  I  would  give  him  more  money  to  buy  coats,"  said  Pen,  smiling. 
"  I  suppose  I  should  like  to  beloiig  to  a  well-dressed  profession.  I 
protest  against  that  wretch  of  a  middle-man  whom  I  see  between 
Genius  and  his  great  Landlord,  the  Public,  and  who  stops  more  than 
half  of  the  labourer's  earnings  and  fame." 

"  I  am  a  prose  labourer,"  Warrington  said :  "  you,  my  boy,  are  a 
poet  in  a  small  way,  and  so,  I  suppose,  consider  you  are  authorised 
to  be  flighty.  What  is  it  you  want  ?  Do  you  want  a  body  of  capitalists 
that  shall  be  forced  to  purchase  the  works  of  all  authors,  who  may 
present  themselves,  manuscript  in  hand  .''  Ever>'body  who  writes  his 
epic,  every  driveller  who  can  or  can't  spell,  and  produces  his  novel  or 
his  tragedy, — are  they  all  to  come  and  find  a  bag  of  sovereigns  in 
exchange  for  their  worthless  reams  of  paper }  Who  is  to  settle  what 
is  good  or  bad,  saleable  or  otherwise  ?  Will  you  give  the  buyer  leave, 
in  fine,  to  purchase  or  not  ?  W^hy,  sir,  when  Johnson  sate  behind  the 
screen  at  Saint  John's  Gate,  and  took  his  dinner  apart,  because  he 
was  too  shabby  and  poor  to  join  the  literary  bigwigs  who  were  regaling 
themselves  round  Mr.  Cave's  best  table-cloth,  the  tradesman  was 
doing  him  no  wrong.  You  couldn't  force  the  publisher  to  recognise 
the  man  of  genius  in  the  young  man  who  presented  himself  before 
him,  ragged,  gaunt,  and  hungry.     Rags  are  not  a  proof  of  genius ; 


PENDENNIS.  319 

whereas  capital  is  absolute,  as  times  go,  and  is  perforce  the  bargain- 
master.  It  has  a  right  to  deal  with  the  literary  inventor  as  with  any 
other; — if  I  produce  a  novelty  in  the  book-trade,  I  must  do  the  best 
I  can  with  it ;  but  I  can  no  more  force  Mr.  Murray  to  purchase  my 
book  of  travels  or  sermons,  than  I  can  compel  Mr.  Tattersall  to  give 
me  a  hundred  guineas  for  my  horse.  I  may  have  my  own  ideas  of  the 
value  of  my  Pegasus,  and  think  him  the  most  wonderful  of  animals  ; 
but  the  dealer  has  a  right  to  his  opinion,  too,  and  may  want  a  lad/s 
horse,  or  a  cob  for  a  heavy  timid  rider,  or  a  sound  hack  for  the  road, 
and  my  beast  won't  suit  him." 

"  You  deal  in  metaphors,  Warrington,"  Pen  said ;  "  but  you  rightly 
say  that  you  are  very  prosaic.  Poor  Shandon !  There  is  something 
about  the  kindness  of  that  man,  and  the  gentleness  of  that  sweet 
creature  of  a  wife,  which  touches  me  profoundly.  I  like  him,  I  am 
afraid,  better  than  a  better  man." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  Warrington  said.  "  Let  us  give  him  the  benefit 
of  our  sympathy,  and  the  pity  that  is  due  to  his  weakness ;  though  I 
fear  that  sort  of  kindness  would  be  resented  as  contempt  by  a  more 
high-minded  man.  You  see  he  takes  his  consolation  along  with  his 
misfortune,  and  one  generates  the  other  or  balances  it,  as  is  the  way 
of  the  world.     He  is  a  prisoner,  but  he  is  not  unhappy." 

"  His  genius  sings  within  his  prison  bars,"  Pen  said. 

"  Yes,"  Warrington  said,  bitterly ;  "  Shandon  accommodates  him- 
self to  a  cage  pretty  well.  He  ought  to  be  wretched,  but  he  has  Jack 
and  Tom  to  drink  with,  and  that  consoles  him :  he  might  have  a  high 
place,  but,  as  he  can't,  why  he  can  drink  with  Tom  and  Jack ; — he 
might  be  providing  for  his  wife  and  children,  but  Thomas  and  John 
have  got  a  bottle  of  brandy  which  they  want  him  to  taste  j— he  might 
pay  poor  Snip,  the  tailor,  the  twenty  pounds  which  the  poor  devil 
wants  for  his  landlord,  but  John  and  Thomas  lay  their  hands  upon 
his  purse ; — and  so  he  drinks  whilst  his  tradesman  goes  to  gaol  and 
his  family  to  ruin.  Let  us  pity  the  misfortunes  of  genius,  and  conspire 
against  the  publishing  tyrants  who  oppress  men  of  letters." 

"  What !  are  you  going  to  have  another  glass  of  brandy-and- 
water  ?"  Pen  said,  with  a  humorous  look.  It  was  at  the  Back  Kitchen 
that  the  above  philosophical  conversation  took  place  between  the  two 
young  men. 

Warrington  began  to  laugh  as  usual.  "  Video  meliofa  proboque — ■ 
I  mean  bring  it  me  hot  with  sugar,  John,"  he  said  to  the  waiter. 

"  I  would  have  some  more,  too,  only  I  don't  want  it,"  said  Pen. 
"  It  does  not  seem  to  me,  Warrington,  that  we  are  much  better  than 
our  neighbours."  And  Warrington's  last  glass  having  been  dispatched, 
the  pair  returned  to  their  chambers. 

They  found  a  couple  of  notes  in  the  letter-box,  on  their  return,  which 


320  PENDENNIS. 

had  been  sent  by  their  acquaintance  of  the  morning,  Mr.  Bungay. 
That  hospitable  gentleman  presented  his  compliments  to  each  of  the 
gentlemen,  and  requested  the  pleasure  of  their  company  at  dinner  on 
an  early  day,  to  meet  a  few  literar>'  friends. 

"  We  shall  have  a  grand  spread,"  said  Warrington.  "We  shall  meet 
all  Bungay's  corps." 

"  All  except  poor  Shandon,"  said  Pen,  nodding  a  good-night  to  his 
friend,  and  he  went  into  his  own  little  room.  The  events  and  acquaint- 
ances of  the  day  had  excited  him  a  good  deal,  and  he  lay  for  some 
time  awake  thinking  over  them,  as  Warrington's  vigorous  and  regular 
snore  from  the  neighbouring  apartment  pronounced  that  that  gentle- 
man was  engaged  in  deep  slumber. 

"  Is  it  true,"  thought  Pendennis,  lying  on  his  bed  and  gazing  at  a 
bright  moon  without,  that  lighted  up  a  corner  of  his  dressing-table, 
and  the  frame  of  a  little  sketch  of  Fairoaks  drawn  by  Laura,  that  hung 
over  his  drawers — "  is  it  true  that  I  am  going  to  earn  my  bread  at  last, 
and  with  my  pen  ?  that  I  shall  impoverish  the  dear  mother  no  longer  ; 
and  that  I  may  gain  a  name  and  reputation  in  the  world,  perhaps  ? 
These  are  welcome  if  they  come,"  thought  the  young  visionary,  laughing 
and  blushing  to  himself,  though  alone  and  in  the  night,  as  he  thought 
how  dearly  he  would  relish  honour  and  fame  if  they  could  be  his.  "  If 
fortune  favours  me,  I  laud  her;  if  she  frowns,  I  resign  her.  I  pray 
Heaven  I  may  be  honest  if  I  fail,  or  if  I  succeed.  I  pray  Heaven  I 
may  tell  the  truth  as  far  as  I  know  it :  that  I  mayn't  swerve  from  it 
through  flattery,  or  interest,  or  personal  enmity,  or  party  prejudice. 
Dearest  old  mother,  what  a  pride  will  you  have,  if  I  can  do  anything 
worthy  of  our  name  !  and  you,  Laura,  you  won't  scorn  me  as  the  worth- 
less idler  and  spendthrift,  when  you  see  that  1 — when  I  have  achieved 
a — psha !  what  an  Alnaschar  I  am  because  I  have  made  five  pounds 
by  my  poems,  and  am  engaged  to  write  half-a-dozen  articles  for  a 
newspaper."  He  went  on  with  these  musings,  more  happy  and  hopeful, 
and  in  a  humbler  frame  of  mind,  than  he  had  felt  to  be  for  many  a  day. 
He  thought  over  the  errors  and  idleness,  the  passions,  extravagances, 
disappointments,  of  his  wayward  youth  :  he  got  up  from  the  bed : 
threw  open  the  window,  and  looked  out  into  the  night :  and  then,  by 
some  impulse,  which  we  hope  was  a  good  one,  he  went  up  and  kissed 
the  picture  of  Fairoaks,  and  flinging  himself  down  on  his  knees  by  the 
bed,  remained  for  some  time  in  that  posture  of  hope  and  submission. 
When  he  rose,  it  was  with  streaming  eyes.  He  had  found  himself 
repeating,  mechanically,  some  little  words  which  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  repeat  as  a  child  at  his  mothers  side,  after  the  saying  of 
which  she  would  softly  take  him  to  his  bed  and  close  the  curtains 
round  him,  hushing  him  with  a  benediction. 


PENDENNIS.  321 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Pidgeon,  their  attendant,  brought  In  a  large 
brown  paper  parcel,  directed  to  G.  Warrington,  Esq.,  with  Mr.  Trotter's 
compliments,  and  a  note-  which  Warrington  read. 

"Pen,  you  beggar  !"  roared  Warrington  to  Pen,  who  ums  in  his 
own  room. 

"  Hullo  ! '"'  sung  out  Pen. 

"  Come  here,  you're  wanted,"  cried  the  other,  and  Pen  came  out. 
"What  is  it?"  said  he. 

'■'' Catch!"  cried  Warrington,  and  flung  the  parcel  at  Pen's  head, 
who  would  have  been  knocked  down  had  he  not  caught  it. 

"  It's  books  for  review  for  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette  ; '  pitch  into  'em," 
Warrington  said.  As  for  Pen,  he  never  had  been  so  delighted  in  his 
life:  his  hand  trembled  as  he  cut  the  string  of  the  packet,  and  beheld 
within  a  smart  set  of  new  neat  calico-bound  books,  travels,  and  novels, 
and  poems. 

"Sport  the  oak,  Pidgeon,"  said  he.  "I'm  not  at  home  to  any- 
body to-day."  And  he  flung  into  his  easy-chair,  and  hardly  gave 
liimself  time  to  drink  k's  tea,  50  eager  was  he  to  begin  :o  read  and  to. 
review. 


ax 


?2; 


PENDENXfS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

IN   WHICH   THE   HISTORY   STILL  HOVERS  ABOUT   FLEET   STREET. 

CAPTAIN  SHANDON,  urged  on  by  his  wife,  who  seldom  meddled 
in  business  matters,  had  stipulated  that  John  Finucane,  Esquire, 
of  the  Upper  Temple,  should  be  appointed  sub-editor  of  the  forth- 
coming "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  and  this  post  was  accordingly  conferred 
upon  Mr.  Finucane  by  the  spirited  proprietor  of  the  Journal.  Indeed 
he  desei-ved  any  kindness  at  the  hands  of  Shandon,  so  fondly  attached 
was  he,  as  we  have  said,  to  the  Captain  and  his  family,  and  so  eager  to 
do  him  a  service.  It  was  in  Finucane's  chambers  that  Shandon  used 
in  former  days  to  hide  when  danger  was  near  and  bailiffs  abroad : 
until  at  length  his  hiding-place  was  known,  and  the  sherift's  officers 
came  as  regularly  to  wait  for  the  Captain  on  Finucane's  staircase  as  at 
his  own  door.  It  was  to  Finucane's  chambers  that  poor  Mrs.  Shandon 
came  often  and  often  to  explain  her  troubles  and  griefs,  and  devise 
means  of  rescue  for  her  adored  Captain.  Many  a  meal  did  Finucane 
furnish  for  her  and  the  child  there.  It  was  an  honour  to  his  little 
rooms  to  be  visited  by  such  a  lady ;  and  as  she  went  down  the  stair- 
case with  her  veil  over  her  face.  Fin  would  lean  over  the  balustrade 
looking  after  her,  to  see  that  no  Temple  Lovelace  assailed  her  upon 
the  road,  perhaps  hoping  that  some  rogue  might  be  induced  to  waylay 
her,  so  that  he,  Fin,  might  have  the  pleasure  of  rushing  to  her  rescue, 
and  breaking  the  rascal's  bones.  It  was  a  sincere  pleasure  to  Mrs. 
Shandon  when  the  arrangements  were  made  by  which  her  kind  honest 
champion  was  appointed  her  husband's  aide-de-camp  in  the  newspaper. 
He  would  have  sate  with  Mrs.  Shandon  as  late  as  the  prison  hours 
permitted,  and  had  indeed  many  a  time  witnessed  the  putting  to  bed 
of  little  Mar}',  who  occupied  a  crib  in  the  room ;  and  to  whose  evening 
prayers  that  God  might  bless  papa,  Finucane,  although  of  the  Romish 
faith  himself,  had  said  Amen  with  a  great  deal  of  sympathy — but  he 
had  an  appointment  with  Mr.  Bungay  regarding  the  affairs  of  the 
paper  which  they  were  to  discuss  over  a  quiet  dinner.  So  he  went 
away  at  six  o'clock  from  Mrs.  Shandon,  but  made  his  accustomed 
appearance  at  the  Fleet  Prison  next  morning,  having  arrayed  himself 
in  his  best  clothes  and  ornaments,  which,  though  cheap  as  to  cost, 
r/ere  very  brilliant  as  to  colour  and  appearance,  and  having  in  his 


FA\Yn£I\V\7S.  323 

pocket  four  pounds  two  shillings,  being  the  amount  oi  his  week's 
salary  at  the  "  Daily  Journal,"  minus  two  shillings  expended  by  him 
in  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  gloves  on  his  way  to  the  prison. 

He  had  cut  his  mutton  with  Mr.  Bungay,  as  the  latter  gentleman 
phrased  it,  and  Mr.  Trotter,  Bungay's  reader  and  literary  man  of 
business,  at  Dick's  Coffee-House  on  the  previous  day,  and  entered  at 
large  into  his  views  respecting  the  conduct  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette." 
In  a  masterly  manner  he  had  pointed  out  what  should  be  the  sub- 
editorial  arrangements  of  the  paper  :  what  should  be  the  type  for  the 
various  articles :  who  should  report  the  markets ;  who  the  turf  and 
ring;  who  the  Church  intelligence;  and  who  the  fashionable  chit- 
chat. He  was  acquainted  with  gentlemen  engaged  in  cultivating  these 
various  departments  of  knowledge,  and  in  communicating  them  after- 
wards to  the  public — in  fine.  Jack  Finucane  was,  as  Shandon  had  said 
of  him,  and,  as  he  proudly  owned  himself  to  be,  one  of  the  best  sub- 
editors of  a  paper  in  London.  He  knew  the  weekly  earnings  of  every 
man  connected  with  the  Press,  and  was  up  to  a  thousand  dodges,  or 
ingenious  economic  contrivances,  by  which  money  could  be  saved  to 
spirited  capitalists,  who  were  going  to  set  up  a  paper.  He  at  once 
dazzled  and  mystified  Mr.  Bungay,  who  was  slow  of  comprehension, 
by  the  rapidity  of  the  calculations  which  he  exhibited  on  paper,  as 
they  sate  in  the  box.  And  Bungay  afterwards  owned  to  his  subordi- 
nate, Mr.  Trotter,  that  that  Irishman  seemed  a  clever  fellow. 

And  now  having  succeeded  in  making  this  impression  upon  Mr. 
Bungay,  the  faithful  fellow  worked  round  to  the  point  which  he  had 
very  near  at  heart,  viz.,  the  liberation  from  prison  of  his  admired  friend 
and  chief.  Captain  Shandon.  He  knew  to  a  shilling  the  amount  of  the 
detainers  which  were  against  the  Captain  at  the  porter's  lodge  of 
the  Fleet ;  and,  indeed,  professed  to  know  all  his  debts,  though  this 
was  impossible,  for  no  man  in  England,  certainly  not  the  Captain 
himself,  was  acquainted  with  them.  He  pointed  out  what  Shandon's 
engagements  already  were;  and  how  much  better  he  would  work  if 
removed  from  confinement  (though  this  Mr.  Bungay  denied,  for, 
"  when  the  Captain's  locked  up,"  he  said,  "  we  are  sure  to  find  him  at 
home ;  whereas,  when  he's  free,  you  can  never  catch  hold  of  him  ") ; 
finally,  he  so  worked  on  Mr.  Bungay's  feelings,  by  describing  Mrs. 
Shandon  pining  away  in  the  prison,  and  the  child  sickening  there, 
that  the  publisher  was  induced  to  promise  that,  if  Mrs.  Shandon  would 
come  to  him  in  the  morning,  he  would  see  what  could  be  done.  And 
the  colloquy  ending  at  this  time  with  the  second  round  of  brandy-and- 
water,  although  Finucane,  who  had  four  guineas  in  his  pocket,  would 
have  discharged  the  tavern  reckoning  with  delight,  Bungay  said,  "  No, 
sir, — this  is  my  affair,  sir,  if  you  please.  James,  take  the  bill,  and 
eighteenpence  for  yourself,"  and  he  handed  over  the  necessary  funds 


324  FENDENNIS. 

to  the  waiter.  Thus  it  was  that  Finucane,  who  went  to  bed  at  the 
Temple  after  the  dinner  at  Dick's,  found  himself  actually  with  his 
week's  salary  intact  upon  Saturday  morning. 

He  gave  Mrs.  Shandon  a  wink  so  knowing  and  joyful,  that  that 
kind  creature  knew  some  good  news  was.  in  store  for  her,  and  hastened 
to  get  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  when  Fin  asked  if  he  might  have  the 
honour  of  taking  her  a  walk,  and  giving  her  a  little  fresh  air.  And 
little  Mary  jumped  for  joy  at  the  idea  of  this  holiday,  for  Finucane 
never  neglected  to  give  her  a  toy,  or  to  take  her  to  a  show,  and  brought 
newspaper  orders  in  his  pocket  for  all  sorts  of  London  diversions  to 
amuse  the  child.  Indeed,  he  loved  them  with  ail  his  heart,  and  would 
cheerfully  have  dashed  out  his  rambling  brains  to  do  them,  or  his 
adored  Captain,  a  service. 

''  May  I  go,  Charley  ?  or  shall  I  stay  with  you,  for  you're  poorly, 
dear,  this  morning  ?  He's  got  a  headache,  Mr.  Finucane.  He  suffers 
from  Ireadaches,  and  I  persuaded  him  to  stay  in  bed,"  Mrs.  Shandon 
said. 

•'  Go  along  with  you,  and  Polly.  Jack,  take  care  of  'em.  Hand 
me  over  the  Burtons  Anatomy,  and  leave  me  to  my  abominable 
devices,"  Shandon  said,  with  perfect  good  humour.  He  was  wTiting, 
and  not  uncommonly  took  his  Greek  and  Latin  quotations  (of  which 
he  knew  the  use  as  a  public  writer)  from  that  wonderful  repertory  of 
learning. 

So  Fin  gave  his  arm  to  Mrs.  Shandon,  and  Mar>'  went  skipping 
down  the  passages  of  the  prison,  and  through  the  gate  into  the  free 
air.  From  Fleet  Street  to  Paternoster  Row  is  not  very  far.  As  the 
three  reached  Mr.  Bungay's  shop,  Mrs.  Bungay  was  also  entering  at 
the  private  door,  holding  in  her  hand  a  paper  parcel  and  a  manuscript 
volume  bound  in  red,  and,  indeed,  containing  an  account  of  her 
transactions  with  the  butcher  in  the  neighbouring  market.  Mrs.  Bun- 
gay was  in  a  gorgeous  shot-silk  dress,  which  flamed  with  red  and 
purple ;  she  wore  a  yellow  shawl,  and  had  red  flowers  inside  her 
bonnet,  and  a  brilliant  light  blue  parasol.  Mrs.  Shandon  was  in  an 
old  black  watered  silk ;  her  bonnet  had  never  seen  ver>'  brilliant  days 
of  prosperity  any  more  than  its  owner,  but  she  could  not  help  looking 
like  a  lady  whatever  her  attire  was.  The  two  women  curtsied  to  each 
other,  each  according  to  her  fashion. 

"  I  hope  you're  pretty  well.  Mum?"  said  !Mrs.  Bungay. 

"  It's  a  very  fine  day,"  said  Mrs.  Shandon. 

"  Won't  you  step  in,  Mum  ?"  said  Mrs.  Bungay,  looking  so  hard  at 
the  child  as  almost  to  frighten  her. 

"  I — I  came  about  business  with  Mr.  Bungay — I— I  hope  he's 
pretty  well?"  said  timid  Mrs.  Shandon. 

"  If  you   go   to  see  him   in   the  counting-house,   couldn't   you— 


PENDENNIS.  335 

couldn't  you  leave  your  little  gurl  with  me  ?"  said  Mrs.  Bungay,  in  a 
deep  voice,  and  with  a  tragic  look,  as  she  held  out  one  finger  towards 
the  child. 

"  I  want  to  stay  with  mamma,"  cried  little  Mar>-,  burying  her  face 
in  her  mothei-'s  dress. 

"  Go  with  this  lady,  Mary,  my  dear,"  said  the  mother. 

'•  I'll  show  you  some  pretty  pictures,"  said  Mrs.  Bungay,  v,-ith  the 
voice  of  an  ogress,  "  and  some  nice  things  besides ;  look  here  " — and 
opening  her  brown  paper  parcel,  Mrs.  Bungay  displayed  some  choice 
sweet  biscuits,  such  as  her  Bungay  loved  after  his  wine.  Little  Mary 
followed  after  this  attraction,  the  whole  party  entering  at  the  private 
entrance,  from  which  a  side  door  led  into  Mr.  Bungay's  commercial 
apartments.  Here,  however,  as  the  child  was  about  to  part  from  her 
mother,  her  courage  again  failed  her,  and  again  she  ran  to  the  maternal 
petticoat ;  upon  which  the  kind  and  gentle  Mrs.  Shandon,  seeing  the 
look  of  disappointment  in  Mrs.  Bungay's  face,  good-naturedly  said, 
'•  If  you  will  let  me,  I  will  come  up  too,  and  sit  for  a  few  minutes," 
and  so  the  three  females  ascended  the  stairs  together.  A  second 
biscuit  charmed  little  Mar>'  into  perfect  confidence,  and  in  a  minute 
or  two  she  prattled  away  without  the  least  restraint. 

Faithful  Finucane  meanwhile  found  Mr.  Bungay  in  a  severer  mood 
than  he  had  been  on  the  night  previous,  when  two-thirds  of  a  bottle 
of'  port,  and  two  large  glasses  of  brandy-and-water,  had  warmed  his 
soul  into  enthusiasm,  and  made  him  generous  in  his  promises  towards 
Captain  Shandon.  His  impetuous  wife  had  rebuked  him  on  his  return 
home.  She  had  ordered  that  he  should  give  no  relief  to  the  Captain ; 
he  vras  a  good-for-nothing  fellow,  whom  no  money  would  help ;  she 
disapproved  of  the  plan  of  the  "  Pall  Mali  Gazette,"  and  expected  that 
Bungay  would  only  lose  his  money  in  it  as  they  were  losing  over  the 
v/ay  (she  always  called  her  brothei^'s  establishment  "  over  the  way,") 
by  the  "  Whitehall  Journal."  Let  Shandon  stop  in  prison  and  do  his 
work;  it  was  the  best  place  for  him.  In  vain  Finucane  pleaded  and 
promised  and  implored,  for  his  friend  Bungay  had  had  an  hour's  lecture 
in  the  morning  and  was  inexorable. 

But  what  honest  Jack  failed  to  do  below  stairs  in  the  counting- 
house,  the  pretty  faces  and  manners  of  the  mother  and  child  were 
effecting  in  the  drawing-room,  where  they  were  melting  the  fierce  but 
really  soft  Mrs.  Bungay.  There  was  an  artless  sweetness  in  Mrs. 
Shandon's  voice,  and  a  winning  frankness  of  manner,  which  made 
most  people  fond  of  her,  and  pity  her :  and  taking  courage  by  the 
rugged  kindness  with  which  her  hostess  received  her,  the  Captain's 
lady  told  her  story,  and  described  her  husband's  goodness  and  virtues, 
and  her  child's  failing  heakh  (she  was  obliged  to  part  with  two  of 
them,  she  said,  and  send  them  to  school,  for  she  could  not  have  them 


326  PENDENXIS. 

in  that  horrid  place)— that  Mrs.  Bungay,  though  as  grim  as  Lady 
Macbeth,  melted  under  the  influence  of  the  simple  tale,  and  said  she 
would  go  down  and  speak  to  Bungay.  Now  in  this  household  to 
speak  -vvas  to  command,  with  :\Irs.  Bungay;  and  with  Bungay,  to  hear 
was  to  obey. 

It  was  just  when  poor  Finucane  was  in  despair  about  his  negotia- 
tion, that  the  majestic  Mrs.  Bungay  descended  upon  her  spouse,  pohtely 
requested  Mr.  Finucane  to  step  up  to  his  friends  in  her  drawing-room, 
while  she  held  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  Mr.  B.,  and  when  the 
pair  were  alone  the  publisher's  better  half  informed  him  of  her  inten- 
tions towards  the  Captain's  lady. 

"  What's  in  the  wind  now,  my  dear  ? "  Maecenas  asked,  surprised 
at  his  wife's  altered  tone.  "  You  wouldn't  hear  of  my  doing  anything 
for  the  Captain  this  morning :  I  wonder  what  has  been  a  changing  of 
you." 

"  The  Capting  is  an  Irishman,"  Mrs.  Bungay  replied ;  "  and  those 
Irish  I  have  always  said  I  couldn't  abide.  But  his  wife  is  a  lady,  as 
any  one  can  see;  and  a  good  woman,  and  a  clergyman's  daughter,  and 
a  West  of  England  woman,  B.,  which  I  am  myself,  by  my  mother's 
5ide — and,  O  ^Marmaduke,  didn't  you  remark  her  little  gurl?" 

"  Yes,  :\Irs.  B.,  I  saw  the  little  girl." 

"  And  didn't  you  see  how  like  she  was  to  our  angel,  Bessy,  Mr.  B.?" 
—and  Mrs.  Bungay's  thoughts  flew  back  to  a  period  eighteen  years 
back,  when  Bacon  and  Bungay  had  just  set  up  in  business  as  small 
booksellers  in  a  country  town,  and  when  she  had  had  a  child,  named 
Bessy,  something  like  the  little  Mary  who  had  just  moved  her  com- 
passion. 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  Mr.  Bungay  said,  seeing  the  little  eyes  of 
his  wife  begin  to  twinkle  and  grow  red ;  "  the  Captain  ain't  in  for 
much.  There's  only  a  hundred  and  thirty  pound  against  him.  Half 
the  money  will  take  him  out  of  the  Fleet,  Finucane  says,  and  we'll  pay 
him  half  salaries  till  he  has  made  the  account  square.  When  the  little 
'un  said,  '  Why  don't  you  take  Par  out  of  piz'n  ? '  I  did  feel  it.  Flora, 
upon  my  honour  I  did,  now."  And  the  upshot  of  this  conversation 
was,  that  ]\Ir.  and  Mrs.  Bungay  both  ascended  to  the  drawing-room, 
and  Mr.  Bungay  made  a  heavy  and  clumsy  speech,  in  which  he 
announced  to  Mrs.  Shandon  that,  hearing  sixty-five  pounds  would  set 
her  husband  free,  he  was  ready  to  advance  that  sum  of  money,  deduct- 
ing it  fl-om  the  Captain's  salary,  and  that  he  would  give  it  to  her  on 
condition  that  she  would  personally  settle  with  the  creditors  regarding 
her  husband's  liberation. 

I  think  this  was  the  happiest  day  that  Mrs.  Shandon  and  Mr. 
Finucane  had  had  for  a  long  time.  "  Bedad,  Bungay,  you're  a  trump !" 
roared  out  Fin,  in  an  overpowering  brogue  and  emotion.     "  Give  us 


PENDENNTS.  327 

your  fist,  old  boy :  and  won't  we  send  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette '  up  to 
ten  thousand  a  week,  that's  all !"  and  he  jumped  about  the  room,  and 
tossed  up  little  Mary,  with  a  hundred  frantic  antics. 

"  If  I  could  drive  you  anywhere  in  my  carriage,  Mrs.  Shandon — 
I'm  sure  it's  quite  at  your  service,"  Mrs.  Bungay  said,  looking  out  at 
a  one-horsed  vehicle  which  had  just  driven  up,  and  in  which  this  lady 
took  the  air  considerably — and  the  two  ladies,  with  little  Maiy  between 
them  (whose  tiny  hand  Maecenas's  wife  kept  fixed  in  her  great  grasp), 
with  the  delighted  Mr.  Finucane  on  the  back  seat,  drove  away  from 
Paternoster  Row,  as  the  owner  of  the  vehicle  threw  triumphant  glances 
at  the  opposite  windows  at  Bacon's. 

"  It  won't  do  the  Captain  any  good,"  thought  Bungay,  going  back 
to  his  desk  and  accounts,  "  but  Mrs.  B.  becomes  regular  upset  when 
she  thinks  about  her  misfortune.  The  child  would  have  been  of  age 
yesterday,  if  she'd  lived.  Bessy  told  me  so :  "  and  he  wondered  how 
women  did  remember  things. 

"We  are  happy  to  say  that  Mrs.  Shandon  sped  with  very  good 
success  upon  her  errand.  She  who  had  had  to  mollify  creditors  when 
she  had  no  money  at  all,  and  only  tears  and  entreaties  wherewith  to 
soothe  them,  found  no  difficulty  in  making  them  relent  by  means  of  a 
bribe  of  ten  shillings  in  the  pound ;  and  the  next  Sunday  was  the  last, 
for  some  time  at  least,  which  the  Captain  spent  in  prison. 


328 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A     DINNER     IN     THE     ROW. 

UPON  the  appointed  day  our  two  friends  made  their  appearance 
at  Mr.  Bungay's  door  in  Paternoster  Row;  not  the  pubhc 
entrance  through  which  booksellers'  boys  issued  with  their  sacks  full 
of  Bunga/s  volumes,  and  around  which  timid  aspirants  lingered  with 
their  virgin  manuscripts  ready  for  sale  to  Sultan  Bungay,  but  at  the 
private  door  of  the  house,  whence  the  splendid  Mrs.  Bungay  would 
come  forth  to  step  into  her  chaise  and  take  her  drive,  settling  herself 
on  the  cushions,  and  casting  looks  of  defiance  at  Mrs.  Bacon's  opposite 
windows — at  Mrs.  Bacon,  who  was  as  yet  a  chaiseless  woman. 

On  such  occasions,  when  very  much  wroth  at  her  sister-in-law's 
splendour,  Mrs.  Bacon  would  fling  up  the  sash  of  her  drawing-room 
window,  and  look  out  with  her  four  children  at  the  chaise,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Look  at  these  four  darlings.  Flora  Bungay !  This  is  why  I 
can't  drive  in  my  carriage  j  you  would  give  a  coach  and  four  to  have 
the  same  reason."  And  it  was  with  these  arrows  out  of  her  quiver 
that  Emma  Bacon  shot  Flora  Bungay  as  she  sate  in  her  chariot  envious 
and  childless. 

As  Pen  and  Warrington  came  to  Bungay's  door,  a  carriage  and  a 
cab  drove  up  to  Bacon's.  Old  Dr.  Slocum  descended  heavily  from  the 
first ;  the  Doctor's  equipage  was  as  ponderous  as  his  style,  but  both 
had  a  fine  sonorous  eftect  upon  the  publishers  in  the  Row.  A  couple 
of  d.izzling  white  waistcoats  stepped  out  of  the  cab. 

Warrington  laughed.  "  You  see  Bacon  has  his  dinner-party  too. 
Thit  is  Dr.  Slocum,  author  of  "  Memoirs  of  the  Poisoners."  You 
would  hardly  have  recognised  our  friend  Hoolan  in  that  gallant  white 
waistcoat.  Doolan  is  one  of  Bunga)-'s  men,  and,  faith,  here  he  comes. 
Indeed  Messrs.  Hoolan  and  Doolan  had  come  from  the  Strand  in  the 
same  cab,  tossing  up  by  the  way  which  should  pav  the  shilling ;  and 
Mr.  D.  stepped  from  the  other  side  of  the  way,  arrayed  in  black,  with 
a  large  pair  of  white  gloves  which  were  spread  out  on  his  hands,  and 
which  the  owner  could  not  help  regarding  with  pleasure. 

The  house  porter  in  an  evening  coat,  and  gentlemen  with  o-loves  as 
large  as  Doolan's,  but  of  the  famous  Berlin  web,  were  on  the  passa<3-e 
of  Mr.  Bungay's  house  to  receive   the  guests'  hats  and   coats,  and 


PENDENNIS.  329 

bawl  their  names  up  the  stair.  Some  of  the  latter  had  arrived  when 
the  three  new  visitors  made  their  appearance;  but  there  was  only 
Mrs.  Bungay,  in  red  satin  and  a  turban,  to  represent  her  own  charming 
sex.  She  made  curtsies  to  each  new  comer  as  he  entered  the  drawing- 
room,  but  her  mind  was  evidently  pre-occupied  by  extraneous  thoughts. 
The  fact  is,  Mrs.  Bacon's  dinner-party  was  disturbing  her,  and  as  soon 
as  she  had  received  each  individual  of  her  own  company.  Flora  Bungay 
flew  back  to  the  embrasure  of  the  window,  whence  she  could  rake  the 
carriages  of  Emma  Bacon's  friends  as  they  came  rattling  up  the  Row. 
The  sight  of  Dr.  Slocum's  large  carriage,  with  the  gaunt  job-horses, 
crushed  Flora :  none  but  hack  cabs  had  driven  up  to  her  own  door  on 
that  day. 

They  were  all  literaiy  gentlemen,  though  unknown  as  yet  to  Pen. 
There  was  Mr.  Bole,  the  real  editor  of  the  magazine  of  which 
Mr.  Wagg  was  the  nominal  chief;  Mr.  Trotter,  who,  from  having 
broken  out  on  the  world  as  a  poet  of  a  tragic  and  suicidal  cast,  had 
now  subsided  into  one  of  Mr.  Bungay's  back  shops  as  reader  for  that 
gentleman;  and  Captain  Sumph,  an  ex-beau  still  about  town,  and 
related  in  some  indistinct  manner  to  Literature  and  the  Peerage,  He 
was  said  to  have  written  a  book  once,  to  have  been  a  friend  of  Lord 
Byron,  to  be  related  to  Lord  Sumphington ;  in  fact,  anecdotes  of  Byron 
formed  his  staple,  and  he  seldom  spoke  but  with  the  name  of  that  poet 
or  some  of  his  contemporaries  in  his  mouth,  as  thus  :  "  I  remember 
poor  Shelley  at  school  being  sent  up  for  good  for  a  copy  of  verses, 
every  line  of  which  I  wrote,  by  Jove ; "  or,  "  I  recollect,  when  I  was  at 
Missolonghi  with  Byron,  offering  to  bet  Gamba,"  and  so  forth.  This 
gentleman.  Pen  remarked,  was  listened  to  with  great  attention  by 
Mrs.  Bungay;  his  anecdotes  of  the  aristocracy,  of  which  he  was  a 
middle-aged  member,  delighted  the  publisher's  lady;  and  he  was 
almost  a  greater  man  than  the  great  Mr.  Wagg  himself  in  her  eyes. 
Had  he  but  come  in  his  own  carriage,  Mrs.  Bungay  would  have  made 
her  Bungay  purchase  any  given  volume  from  his  pen. 

Mr.  Bungay  went  about  to  his  guests  as  they  arrived,  and  did  the 
honours  of  his  house  with  much  cordiality.  "  How  are  y®u,  sir?  Fine 
day,  sir.  Glad  to  see  you  year,  sir.  Flora,  my  love,  let  me  'ave  the 
honour  of  introducing  Mr.  Warrington  to  you.  Mr.  Warrington, 
Mrs.  Bungay;  Mr.  Pendennis,  Mrs.  Bungay.  Hope  you've  brought 
good  appetites  with  you,  gentlemen.  You,  Doolan,  I  know  'ave,  for 
you've  always  'ad  a  deuce  of  a  twist." 
.  "  Lor',  Bungay  ! "  said  Mrs.  Bungay. 
"  Faith,  a  man  must  be  hard  to  please,  Bungay,  who  can't  eat  a 
good  dinner  in  this  house,"  Doolan  said,  and  he  winked  and  stroked 
his  lean  chops  with  his  large  gloves  ;  and  made  appeals  of  friendship 
to  Mrs.  Bungay,  which  that  honest  woman  refused  with  scorn  from  the 


330  PENDENNIS. 

timid  man.  "  She  couldn't  abide  that  Doolan,"  she  said  in  confidence 
to  her  friends.     Indeed,  all  his  flatteries  failed  to  win  her. 

As  they  talked,  Mrs.  Bungay  sui-veying  mankind  from  her  vvindow, 
a  magnificent  vision  of  an  enormous  grey  cab-horse  appeared,  and 
neared  rapidly.  A  pair  of  white  reins,  held  by  small  white  gloves,  v/ere 
visible  behind  it ;  a  face  pale,  but  richly  decorated  with  a  chin-tuft,  the 
head  of  an  exiguous  groom  bobbing  over  the  cab-head — these  bright 
things  were  revealed  to  the  delighted  Mrs.  Bungay.  "  The  Honourable 
Percy  Popjoy's  quite  punctual,  I  declare,"  she  said,  and  sailed  to  the 
door  to  be  in  waiting  at  the  nobleman's  arrival. 

"  It's  Percy  Popjoy,"  said  Pen,  looking  out  of  Avindow,  and  seeing 
an  individual,  in  extremely  lacquered  boots,  descend  from  the  swinging 
cab:  and,  in  fact,  it  was  that  young  nobleman — Lord  Falconet's  eldest 
son,  as  we  all  very  well  know,  who  was  come  to  dine  with  the  publisher 
— his  publisher  of  the  Row. 

"  He  was  my  fag  at  Eton,"  Warrington  said.  "  I  ought  to  have 
licked  him  a  little  more."  He  and  Pen  had  had  some  bouts  at  the 
Oxbridge  Union  debates,  in  which  Pen  had  had  very  much  the  better 
of  Percy:  who  presently  appeared,  with  his  hat  under  his  arm,  and  a 
look  of  indescribable  good  humour  and  fatuity  in  his  round  dimpled 
face,  upon  which  Nature  had  burst  out  with  a  chin-tuft,  but,  exhausted 
with  the  effort,  had  left  the  rest  of  the  countenance  bare  of  hair. 

The  temporary  groom  of  the  chambers  bawled  out,  "  The  Honour- 
able Percy  Popjoy,"  much  to  that  gentleman's  discomposure  at  hearing 
his  titles  announced. 

"  What  did  the  man  want  to  take  away  my  hat  for,  Bungay  ? "  he 
asked  of  the  publisher.  "  Can't  do  without  my  hat — want  it  to  make 
my  bow  to  Mrs.  Bungay.  How  well  you  look,  Mrs.  Bungay,  to-day. 
Haven't  seen  your  carriage  in  the  Park  :  why  haven't  you  been  there  ? 
I  missed  you  ;  indeed,  I  did." 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  a  sad  quiz,"  said  Mrs.  Bungay. 

"  Quiz  !  Never  made  a  joke  in  my — hullo  !  who's  here  ?  How 
d'ye  do,  Pendennis  t  How  d'ye  do,  Warrington  ?  These  are  old  friends 
of  mine,  i\Irs.  Bungay.  I  say,  how  the  doose  did  you  come  here  ? " 
he  a.sked  of  the  two  young  men,  turning  his  lacquered  heels  upon 
Mrs.  Bungay,  who  respected  her  husband's  two  young  guests,  now 
that  she  found  they  were  intimate  with  a  lord's  son. 

"  What  !  do  they  know  him  ?"  she  asked  rapidly  of  Air.  B. 

"  High  fellers,  I  tell  you — the  young  one  related  to  all  the  nobility," 
said  the  publisher;  and  both  ran  forward,  smiling  and  bowing  to  greet 
almost  as  great  personages  as  the  young  lord — no  less  characters, 
indeed,  than  the  great  Mr.  Wenham  and  the  great  Mr.  Wagg,  who 
were  now  announced. 

Mr.  Wenham  entered,  wearing  the  usual  demure  look  and  stealthy 


PENDENNIS.  331 

smile  with  which  he  commonly  surveyed  the  tips  of  his  neat  little 
shining  boots,  and  which  he  but  seldom  brought  to  bear  upon  the 
person  who  addressed  him.  Wagg's  white  waistcoat,  spread  out,  on 
the  contrary,  with  profuse  brilliancy ;  his  burly,  red  face  shone  resplen- 
dent over  it,  lighted  up  with  the  thoughts  of  good  jokes  and  a  good 
dinner.  He  liked  to  make  his  enty-eemto  a  drawing-room  with  a  laugh, 
and,  when  he  went  away  at  night,  to  leave  a  joke  exploding  behind 
him.  No  personal  calamities  or  distresses  (of  which  that  humourist 
had  his  share  in  common  with  the  unjocular  part  of  mankind)  could 
altogether  keep  his  humour  down.  Whatever  his  griefs  might  be,  the 
thought  of  a  dinner  rallied  his  great  soul ;  and  when  he  saw  a  lord  ; 
he  saluted  him  with  a  pun. 

Wenham  went  up,  then,  with  a  smug  smile  and  whisper,  to 
Mrs.  Bungay,  and  looked  at  her  from  under  his  eyes,  and  showed  her 
the  tips  of  his  shoes.  Wagg  said  she  looked  charming,  and  pushed 
on  straight  at  the  young  nobleman,  whom  he  called  Pop  ;  and  to  whom 
he  instantly  related  a  funny  story,  seasoned  with  what  the  French  call 
gros  sel.  He  was  delighted  to  see  Pen,  too,  and  shook  hands  with 
him,  and  slapped  him  on  the  back  cordially ;  for  he  was  full  of  spirits 
and  good  humour.  And  he  talked  in  a  loud  voice  about  their  last 
place  and  occasion  of  meeting  at  Baymouth;  and  asked  how  their 
friends  of  Clavering  Park  were,  and  whether  Sir  Francis  was  not 
coming  to  London  for  the  season ;  and  whether  Pen  had  been  to  see 
Lady  Rockminster,  who  had  arrived — fine  old  lady,  Lady  Rockminster ! 
These  remarks  Wagg  made,  not  for  Pen's  ear  so  much  as  for  the 
edification  of  the  company,  whom  he  was  glad  to  inform  that  he  paid 
visits  to  gentlemen's  country  seats,  and  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
the  nobility. 

Wenham  also  shook  hands  with  our  young  friend — all  of  which 
scenes  Mrs.  Bungay  remarked  with  respectful  pleasure,  and  commu- 
nicated her  ideas  to  Bungay,  afterwards,  regarding  the  importance  of 
Mr.  Pendennis — ideas  by  which  Pen  profited  much  more  than  he  was 
aware. 

Pen,  who  had  read,  and  rather  admired  some  of  her  works  (and 
expected  to  find  in  Miss  Bunion  a  person  somewhat  resembling  her 
own  description  of  herself  in  the  "  Passion-Flowers,"  in  which  she 
stated  that  her  youth  resembled — 

"  A  violet,   shrinking  meanly 
When  blows  the  March  wind  keenly ;  ' 
A  timid  fawn,   on  wild-wood  lawn, 
Where  oak- boughs  mstle  greenly, — " 

and  that  her  maturer  beauty  was  something  very  different,  certainly, 
to  the  artless  lovehness  of  her  prime,  but  still  exceedingly  captivating 


333  PENDENNIS. 

and  striking;i,  beheld,  rather  to  his  surprise  and  amusement,  a  large 
and  bony  woman  in  a  crumpled  satin  dress,  who  cam.e  creaking  into 
the  room  with  a  step  as  heavy  as  a  grenadier's.  Wagg  instantly  noted 
the  straw  which  she  brought  in  at  the  pjmpled  skirt  of  her  dress,  and 
would  have  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  but  Miss  Bunion  disarmed  all 
criticism  by  observing  this  ornament  herself,  and,  putting  down  her 
own  large  foot  upon  it,  so  as  to  separate  it  from  her  robe,  she  stopped 
and  picked  up  the  straw,  saying  to  Mrs.  Bungay,  that  she  was  very 
sorry  to  be  a  little  late,  but  that  the  omnibus  was  ver}-  slow,  and  what 
a  comfort  it  was  to  get  a  ride  all  the  way  from  Brompton  for  sixpence. 
Nobody  laughed  at  the  poetess's  speech,  it  was  uttered  so  simply. 
Indeed,  the  worthy  woman  had  not  the  least  notion  of  being  ashamed 
of  an  action  incidental  upon  her  poverty. 

"  Is  that  '  Passion-Flowers  ? '"  Pen  said  to  Wenham,  by  whom  he 
was  standing.  "  Why,  her  picture  in  the  volume  represents  her  as  a 
very  well-looking  young  woman." 

"  You  know  passion-flowers,  like  all  others,  will  run  to  seed," 
Wenham  said  ;  "  Miss  Bunion's  portrait  was  probably  painted  some 
years  ago." 

"  Well,  I  like  her  for  not  being  ashamed  of  her  poverty." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Mr.  Wenham,  who  v.ould  have  star\-ed  rather 
than  have  come  to  dinner  in  an  omnibus ;  '•  but  I  don't  think  that  she 
need  flourish  the  straw  about,  do  you,  Mr.  Pendennis  ?  My  dear  Miss 
Bunion,  how  do  you  do  ?  I  was  in  a  great  lad)''s  drawing-room  this 
morning,  and  everybody  was  charmed  with  your  new  volume.  Those 
lines  on  the  christening  of  Lady  Fanny  Fantail  brought  tears  into  the 
Duchess's  eyes.  I  said  that  I  thought  I  should  have  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  you  to-day,  and  she  begged  me  to  thank  you,  and  say  how 
greatly  she  was  pleased." 

This  histoiy,  told  in  a  bland,  smiling  manner,  of  a  Duchess  whom 
Wenham  had  met  that  very  morning,  too,  quite  put  poor  Wagg's 
dowager  and  baronet  out  of  court,  and  placed  Wenham  beyond  Wagg 
as  a  man  of  fashion.  Wenham  kept  this  inestimable  advantage,  and 
having  the  conversation  to  himself,  ran  on  with  a  number  of  anecdotes 
regarding  the  aristocracy.  He  tried  to  bring  Mr.  Popjoy  into  the 
conversation  by  making  appeals  to  him,  and  saying,  "  I  was  tellino- 
your  father  this  morning,"  or,  "  I  think  you  were  present  at  W.  house 
the  other  night  when  the  Duke  said  so  and  so,"  but  Mr.  Popjoy  would 
not  gratify  him  by  joining  in  the  talk,  preferring  to  fall  back  into  the 
window  recess  with  Mrs.  Bungay,  and  watch  the  cabs  that  dro\-e  up  to 
the  opposite  door.  At  least,  if  he  would  not  talk,  the  hostess  hoped 
that  those  odious  Bacons  would  see  how  she  had  secured  the  noble 
Percy  Popjoy  for  her  party. 

And  now  the  bell  of  Saint  Paul's  tolled  half  an  hour  later  than  that 


PENDENNIS.  333 

for  which  Mr,  Bungay  had  invited  his  party,  and  it  was  complete  with 
the  exception  of  two  guests,  who  at  last  made  their  appearance,  and  in 
whom  Pen  was  pleased  to  recognise  Captain  and  Mrs.  Shandon. 

When  these  two  had  made  their  greetings  to  the  master  and  mis- 
tress of  the  house,  and  exchanged  nods  of  more  or  less  recognition 
with  most  of  the  people  present.  Pen  and  Warrington  went  up  and 
shook  hands  very  warmly  with  Mrs.  Shandon,  who,  perhaps,  was 
affected  to  meet  them,  and  think  where  it  was  she  had  seen  them  but 
a  few  days  before.  Shandon  was  brushed  up,  and  looked  pretty  smart, 
in  a  red  velvet  waistcoat,  and  a  frill,  into  which  his  wife  had  stuck  her 
best  brooch.  In  spite  of  Mrs.  Bungay's  kindness,  perhaps  in  con- 
sequence of  it,  Mrs.  Shandon  felt  great  terror  and  timidity  in  approach- 
ing her :  indeed,  she  was  more  awful  than  ever  in  her  red  satin  and 
bird  of  paradise,  and  it  was  not  until  she  had  asked  in  her  great  voice 
about  the  dear  little  gurl,  that  the  latter  was  somewhat  encouraged, 
and  ventured  to  speak. 

"  Nice-looking  woman,"  Popjoy  whispered  to  Warrington.  "  Do 
introduce  me  to  Captain  Shandon,  Warrington,  I'm  told  he's  a  tre- 
mendous clever  fellow ;  and,  dammy,  I  adore  intellect,  by  Jove  I  do ! " 
This  was  the  truth :  Heaven  had  not  endowed  young  Mr.  Popjoy  with 
much  intellect  of  his  own,  but  had  given  him  a  generous  faculty  for 
admiring,  if  not  for  appreciating,  the  intellect  of  others.  "  And  intro- 
duce me  to  i\Iiss  Bunion.  I'm  told  she's  very  clever  too.  She's  rum 
to  look  at,  certainly,  but  that  don't  matter.  Dammy,  I  consider 
myself  a  literary  man,  and  I  wish  to  know  all  the  clever  fellows."  So 
Mr.  Popjoy  and  Mr.  Shandon  had  the  pleasure  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  one  another ;  and  now  the  doors  of  the  adjoining  dining-room 
being  flung  open,  the  party  entered  and  took  their  seats  at  table.  Pen 
found  himself  next  to  Miss  Bunion  on  one  side,  and  to  Mr.  Wagg — 
the  truth  is,  Wagg  fled  alarmed  from  the  vacant  place  by  the  poetess, 
and  Pen  was  compelled  to  take  it. 

The  gifted  being  did  not  talk  much  during  dinner,  but  Pen  remarked 
that  she  ate  with  a  vast  appetite,  and  never  refused  any  of  the  supplies 
of  wine  which  were  offered  to  her  by  the  butler.  Indeed,  Miss  Bunion 
having  considered  Mr.  Pendennis  for  a  minute,  who  gave  himself 
rather  grand  airs,  and  who  was  attired  in  an  extremely  fashionable 
style,  with  his  very  best  chains,  shirt-studs,  and  cambric  fronts,  he 
was  set  down,  and  not  without  reason,  as  a  prig  by  the  poetess ;  who 
thought  it  was  much  better  to  attend  to  her  dinner  than  to  take  any 
notice  of  him.  She  told  him  as  much  in  after  days  with  her  usual 
candour.  "  I  took  you  for  one  of  the  little  Mayfair  dandies,"  she  said 
to  Pen.  "  You  looked  as  solemn  as  a  little  undertaker;  and  as  I  dis- 
liked beyond  measure  the  odious  creature  who  was  on  the  other  side 
of  me,  I  thought  it  was  best  to  eat  my  dinner  and  hold  my  tongue." 


3 ',4  PENDENiYIS. 

"  And  you  did  both  very  well,  my  dear  jNIiss  Bunion,"  Pen  said 
with  a  laugh. 

'•  Well,  so  I  do,  but  I  intend  to  talk  to  you  the  next  time  a  great 
deal :  for  you  are  neither  so  solemn,  nor  so  stupid,  nor  so  pert  as  you 
look." 

"All,  Miss  Bunion,  hew  I  pine  for  that  '  next  time'  to  come,"  Pen 
said,  with  an  air  of  comical  gallantrj' : — But  we  must  return  to  the  day, 
and  the  dinner  at  Paternoster  Row. 

The  repast  was  of  the  richest  description — "  What  I  call  of  the 
fiorid  Gothic  style,"  Wagg  whispered  to  Pen,  who  sate  beside  the 
humourist,  in  his  side-wing  voice.  The  men  in  creaking  shoes  and 
Berlin  gloves  were  numerous  and  solemn,  carrying  on  rapid  conversa- 
tions behind  the  guests,  as  they  moved  to  and  fro  with  the  dishes. 
Doolan  called  out,  "  Waither,"  to  one  of  them,  and  blushed  when  he 
thought  of  his  blunder.  Mrs.  Bungay's  own  footboy  was  lost  amidst 
those  large  and  black-coated  attendants. 

'■  Look  at  that  very  bow-windowed  man,"  Wagg  said.  "  He's  an 
undertaker  in  Amen  Corner,  and  attends  funerals  and  dinners.  Cold 
meat  and  hot,  don't  you  perceive  ?  He's  the  sham  butler  here,  and  I 
observe,  my  dear  Mr.  Pendennis,  as  you  will  through  life,  that  wher- 
ever there  is  a  sham  butler  at  a  London  dinner  there  is  sham  wine — 
this  sherry  is  filthy.  Bungay,  my  boy,  where  did  you  get  this  delicious 
brown  sherrj'  ? " 

'■  Pm  glad  you  like  it,  Mr.  Wagg ;  glass  with  you,"  said  the  pub- 
lisher. "  It's  some  I  got  from  Alderman  Benning's  store,  and  gave  a 
good  figure  for  it,  I  can  tell  you.  Mr.  Pendennis,  will  you  join  us  ? 
Your  'ealth,  gentlemen." 

'•  The  old  rogue,  where  does  he  expect  to  go  to  ?  It  came  from 
the  public-house,"  Wagg  said.  "  It  requires  two  men  to  carry  off 
that  sherr)',  'tis  so  uncommonly  strong.  I  wish  I  had  a  bottle  of  old 
Steyne's  wine  here,  Pendennis :  your  uncle  and  I  have  had  many  a 
one.  He  sends  it  about  to  people  where  he  is  in  the  habit  of  dining. 
1  remember  at  poor  Rawdon  Crawley's,  Sir  Pitt  Crawley's  brother — 
he  was  Governor  of  Coventry  Island — Steyne's  chef  always  came  in 
the  morning,  and  the  butler  arrived  with  the  champagne  from  Gaunt 
House,  in  the  ice-pails  ready." 

"  How  good  this  is  ! "  said  Popjoy,  good-naturedly.  '•  You  must 
have  a  cordon  bleu  in  your  kitchen." 

"  O  yes,"  Mrs.  Bungay  said,  thinking  he  spoke  of  a  jack-chain  verj- 
likely. 

'•  I  mean  a  French  chef,"  said  the  polite  guest. 

"  O  yes,  your  lordship,"  again  said  the  lady. 
^  "  Does  your  artist  say  he's  a  Frenchman,  Mrs.  B.  ? "  called  out 
Wasre. 


PENDENNIS.  335 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  answered  the  publisher's  lady. 

"  Because,  if  he  does,  he's  a  guizzm'  yer"  cried  Mr.  Wagg  ;  but 
nobody  saw  the  pun,  which  disconcerted  somewhat  the  bashful 
punster.  "  The  dinner  is  from  Griggs'  in  St.  Paul's  Church-yard ;  so 
is  Bacon's,"  he  whispered  Pen.  "  Bungay  writes  to  give  half-a-crown 
a  head  more  than  Bacon, — so  does  Bacon.  They  would  poison  each 
other's  ices  if  they  could  get  near  them ;  and  as  for  the  made-dishes 
— they  are  poison.  This — hum — ha — this  brimborio>i  a  la  Sevigne 
is  delicious,  Mrs.  B.,"  he  said,  helping  himself  to  a  dish  which  the 
undertaker  handed  to  him. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  Mrs.  Bungay  answered,  blushing, 
and  not  knowing  whether  the  name  of  the  dish  was  actually  that 
which  Wagg  gave  to  it,  but  dimly  conscious  that  that  individual  was 
quizzing  her.  Accordingly  she  hated  Mr.  Wagg  with  female  ardour ; 
and  would  have  deposed  him  from  his  command  over  Mr.  Bungay's 
periodical,  but  that  his  name  was  great  in  the  trade,  and  his  reputation 
in  the  land  considerable. 

By  the  displacement  of  persons,  Warrington  had  found  himself  on 
the  right  hand  of  Mrs.  Shandon,  who  sate  in  plain  black  silk  and 
faded  ornaments  by  theside  of  the  florid  publisher.  The  sad  smile 
of  the  lady  moved  his  rough  heart  to  pity.  Nobody  seemed  to  interest 
himself  about  her :  she  sate  looking  at  her  husband,  who  himself 
seemed  rather  abashed  in  the  presence  of  some  of  the  company. 
Wenham  and  Wagg  both  knew  him  and  his  circumstances.  He  had 
worked  with  the  latter,  and  vas  immeasurably  his  superior  in  wit, 
genius,  and  acquirement ;  but  Wagg's  star  was  brilliant  in  the  world, 
and  poor  Shandon  was  unknown  there.  He  could  not  speak  before 
the  noisy  talk  of  the  coarser  and  more  successful  man ;  but  drank  his 
wine  in  silence,  and  as  much  of  it  as  the  people  would  give  him.  He 
was  under  sicrveillance.  Bungay  had  warned  the  undertaker  not  to 
fill  the  Captain's  glass  too  often  or  too  full.  It  was  a  melancholy  pre- 
caution that,  and  the  more  melancholy  that  it  was  necessary.  Mrs. 
Shandon,  too,  cast  alarmed  glances  across  the  table  to  see  that  her 
husband  did  not  exceed. 

Abashed  by  the  failure  of  his  first  pun,  for  he  was  impudent  and 
easily  disconcerted,  Wagg  kept  his  conversation  pretty  much  to  Pen 
during  the  rest  of  dinner,  and  of  course  chiefly  spoke  about  their 
neighbours.  "This  is. one  of  Bungay's  grand  field-days,"  he  said. 
"  We  are  all  Bungavians  here. — Did  you  read  Popjoy's  novel  ?  It 
was  an  old  magazine  story  written  by  poor  Buzzard  years  ago,  and 
forgotten  here  until  Mr.  Trotter  (that  is  Trotter  with  the  large  shirt- 
collar)  fished  it  out  and  bethought  him  that  it  was  applicable  to  the 
late  elopement  ;  so  Bob  wrote  a  faw  chapters  apropos — Popjoy  per- 
mitted the  use  of  his  name,  and  I  daresay  supplied  a  page  here  and 


,-6  PENDENNIS. 

there— and  '  Desperation,  or  the  Fugitive  Duchess  '  made  its  appear- 
ance. The  great  fun  is  to  examine  Popjoy  about  his  ouii  work,  of 
which  he  doesn't  know  a  word.— I  say,  Popjoy,  what  a  capital  passage 
that  is  in  Volume  Three,— where  the  Cardinal  in  disguise,  after 
bein^^  converted  by  the  Bishop  of  London,  proposes  marriage  to  the 
Duchess's  daughter." 

"  Glad  you  like  it,"  Popjoy  answered  ;  "  it's  a  favourite  bit  of 
my  own." 

"  There's  no  such  thing  in  the  whole  book,"  whispered  Wagg  to 
Pen.  "  Invented  it  myself.  Gad  !  it  wouldn't  be  a  bad  plot  for  a 
high-church  novel." 

"  I  remember  poor  Byron,  Hobhouse,  Trelawney,  and  myself, 
dining  with  Cardinal  Mezzocaldo,  at  Rome,"  Captain  Sumph  began, 
"  and  we  had  some  Orvieto  wine  for  dinner,  which  Byron  liked  very 
much.  And  I  remember  how  the  Cardinal  regretted  that  he  was  a 
single  man.  We  went  to  Civita  "Vecchia  two  days  afterwards,  where 
Byron's  yacht  was — and,  by  Jove,  the  Cardinal  died  within  ;hree 
weeks  ;  and  Byron  was  very  sorry,  for  he  rather  liked  him." 

"A  devilish  interesting  story,  Sumph,  indeed,''  Wagg  said. 

"  You  should  publish  some  of  those  stories,  Captain  Sumph,  you 
really  should.  Such  a  volume  would  make  our  friend  Bungay's 
fortune,"  Shandon  said. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Sumph  to  publish  'em  in  your  new  paper — 
the  what-d'ye-call'em — hay,  Shandon  ?"  bawled  out  Wagg. 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  him  to  publish  'em  in  your  old  magazine,  the 
Thingumbob  ? "  Shandon  replied. 

"Is  there  going  to  be  a  new  paper?"  asked  Wenham,  who 
knew  perfectly  well ;  but  was  ashamed  of  his  connection  with  the 
press. 

"  Bungay  going  to  bring  out  a  paper  ?  "  cried  Popjoy,  who,  or.  the 
contrary,  was  proud  of  his  literary  reputation  and  acquaintances. 
"  You  must  employ  me.  Mrs.  Bungay,  use  your  influence  with  him, 
and  make  him  employ  me.  Prose  or  verse — what  shall  it  be  1  Novels, 
poems,  travels,  or  leading  articles,  begad.  Anything  or  everything — 
only  let  Bungay  pay  me,  and  I'm  ready— I  am  now,  my  dvar  ?vTrs. 
Bungay,  begad  now." 

"  It's  to  be  called  the  '  Small  Beer  Chronicle,' "  growled  Wagg, 
"  and  little  Popjoy  is  to  be  engaged  for  the  infantine  department." 

"  It  is  to  be  called  the  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette,'  sir,  and  we  sha:!  be 
very  happy  to  have  you  with  us,"  Shandon  said. 

"  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette'— why  '  Pall  Mall  Gazette  ?'"  asked  Wagg. 

"  Because  the  editor  was  born  at  Dublin,  the  sub-editor  at  Cork, 
because  the  proprietor  lives  in  Paternoster  Row,  and  the  paper  is 
pubhshed  in  Catherine  Street,  Strand.     Won't  that  reason  sufr.ce  vou. 


PENDENNIS.  337 

Wagg  ?  "  Shandon  said  ;  he  was  getting  rather  angry.  "  Everything 
must  have  a  name.  My  dog  Ponto  has  got  a  name.  You've  got  a 
name,  and  a  name  which  you  deserve,  more  or  less,  bedad.  Why 
d'ye  grudge  the  name  to  our  paper  1 " 

"  By  any  other  name  it  would  smell  as  sweet,"  said  Wagg. 

"  I'll  have  ye  remember  its  name's  not  what-d'-ye-call'-em,  Mr. 
Wagg,"  said  Shandon.  "  You  know  its  name  well  enough,  and — and 
you  know  mine." 

"  And  I  know  your  address,  too,"  said  Wagg,  but  this  was  spoken 
in  an  undertone,  and  the  good-natured  Irishman  was  appeased  almost 
in  an  instant  after  his  ebullition  of  spleen,  and  asked  Wagg  to  drink 
wine  with  him  in  a  friendly  voice. 

When  the  ladies  retired  from  the  table,  the  talk  grew  louder  still  ; 
and  presently  Wenham,  in  a  courtly  speech,  proposed  that  everj'body 
should  drink  to  the  health  of  the  new  Journal,  eulogising  highly  the 
talents,  wit,,  and  learning  of  its  editor.  Captain  Shandon.  It  was  his 
maxim  never  to  lose  the  support  of  a  newspaper  man,  and  in  the 
course  of  that  evening,  he  went  round  and  saluted  every  literary 
gentleman  present  with  a  privy  compliment  specially  addressed  to 
him  ;  informing  this  one  how  great  an  impression  had  been  made  in 
Downing  Street  by  his  last  article,  and  telling  that  one  how  profoundly 
his  good  friend  the  Duke  of  So-and-So  had  been  struck  by  the  ability 
of  the  late  numbers. 

The  evening  came  to  a  close,  and  in  spite  of  all  the  precautions  to 
the  contrary,  poor  Shandon  reeled  in  his  walk,  and  went  home  to  his 
new  lodgings,  with  his  faithful  wife  by  his  side,  and  the  cabman  on  his 
box  jeering  at  him.  Wenham  had  a  chariot  of  his  own,  which  he  put 
at  Popjoy's  service ;  and  the  timid  Miss  Bunion  seeing  Mr.  Wagg,  who 
was  her  neighbour,  about  to  depart,  insisted  upon  a  seat  in  his  carriage, 
much  to  that  gentleman's  discomfiture. 

Pen  and  Warrington  walked  home  together  in  the  moonlight. 
'•  And  now,"  Warrington  said,  "  that  you  have  seen  the  men  of  letters, 
tell  me,  was  I  far  wrong  in  saying  that  there  are  thousands  of  people 
in  this  town,  who  don't  write  books,  who  are,  to  th^  full,  as  clev?r  ^Tid, 
intellectual  as  people  who  do  ?  " 

Pen  was  forced  to  confess  that  the  literary  personages  with  whom 
he  had  become  acquainted  had  not  said  much,  in  the  course  of  the 
night's  conversation,  that  was  worthy  to  be  remembered  or  quoted. 
In  fact,  not  one  word  about  literature  had  been  said  during  the  whole 
course  of  the  night:  and  it  may  be  whispered  to  those  uninitiated 
people  who  are  anxious  to  know  the  habits  and  make  the  acquaintance 
of  men  of  letters,  that  there  are  no  race  of  people  who  talk  about  books, 
or,  perhaps,  who  read  books,  so  little  as  literary  men. 


PENDENSkJS. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

THE   "pall   mall  GAZETTE." 

CONSIDERABLE  success  at  first  attended  the  new  journal.  It 
was  generally  stated,  that  an  influential  political  party  supported 
the  paper;  and  great  names  were  cited  amongst  the  contributors  to  its 
columns.  Was  there  any  foundation  for  these  rumours  1  We  are  not 
at  liberty  to  say  whether  they  were  well  or  ill  founded ;  but  this  much 
we  may  divulge,  that  an  article  upon  foreign  policy,  which  was  gene- 
r.'illy  attributed  to  a  noble  lord,  whose  connection  with  the  Foreign 
Office  is  very  well  known,  was  in  reality  composed  by  Captain 
Shandon,  in  the  parlour  of  the  Bear  and  Staff  public-house  near 
Whitehall  Stairs,  whither  the  printer's  boy  had  tracked  him,  and 
where  a  literary  ally  of  his,  Mr.  Bludyer,  had  a  temporary  residence; 
and  that  a  series  of  papers  on  finance  questions,  which  were  univer- 
sally supposed  to  be  written  by  a  great  statesman  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  were  in  reality  composed  by  Mr.  George  Warrington  of  the 
Upper  Temple. 

That  there  may  have  been  some  dealings  between  the  "  Pall  Mall 
Gazette"'  and  this  influential  party,  is  very  possible.  Percy  Popjoy 
(whose  father.  Lord  Falconet,  was  a  member  of  the  party)  might  be 
seen  not  unfrequently  ascending  the  stairs  to  Warrington's  chambers ; 
and  some  information  appeared  in  the  paper  which  gave  it  a  character, 
and  could  only  be  got  from  very  peculiar  sources.  Several  poems, 
feeble  in  thought,  but  loud  and  vigorous  in  expression,  appeared  in 
the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  with  the  signature  of  "  P.  P. ; "  and  it  must 
be  owned  that  his  novel  was  praised  in  the  new  journal  in  a  very  out- 
rageous manner. 

In  the  political  department  of  the  paper  ^Ir.  Pen  did  not  take  any 
share  ;  but  he  was  a  most  active  literary  contributor.  The  "  Pall 
Mail  Gazette"  had  its  offices,  as  we  have  heard,  in  Catherine  Street, 
in  the  Strand,  and  hither  Pen  often  came  with  his  manuscripts  in  his 
pocket,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  bustle  and  pleasure  ;  such  as  a  man 
feels  at  the  outset  of  his  literary  career,  when  to  see  himself  in  print 
is  still  a  novel  sensation,  and  he  yet  pleases  himself  to  think  that  his 
writings  are  creating  some  noise  in  the  world. 

Here  it  was  that   j\Ir.   Jack  Finucane,  the  sub-editor,  compiled 


PENDENNIS.  339 

with  paste  and  scissors  the  journal  of  Avhich  he  was  supervisor.  With 
an  eagle  eye  he  scanned  all  the  paragraphs  of  all  the  newspapers 
which  had  anything  to  do  with  the  world  of  fashion  over  which  he 
presided.  He  didn't  let  a  death  or  a  dinner-party  of  the  aristocracy 
pass  without  having  the  event  recorded  in  the  columns  of  his  journal  ; 
and  from  the  most  recondite  provincial  prints,  and  distant  Scotch  and 
Irish  newspapers,  he  fished  out  astonishing  paragraphs  and  intelli- 
gence regarding  the  upper  classes  of  society.  It  was  a  grand,  nay,  a 
touching  sight,  for  a  philosopher,  to  see  Jack  Finucane,  Esquire,,  with 
a  plate  of  meat  from  the  cookshop,  and  a  glass  of  porter  from  the 
public-house,  for  his  meal,  recounting  the  feasts  of  the  great,  as  if  he 
had  been  present  at  them  ;  and  in  tattered  trowsers  and  dingy  shirt- 
sleeves, cheerfully  describing  and  arranging  the  most  brilliant _/t'/^j  of 
the  world  of  fashion.  The  incongruity  of  Finucane's  avocation,  and 
his  manners  and  appearance,  amused  his  new  friend  Pen.  Since  he 
left  his  own  native  village,  where  his  rank  probably  was  not  very 
lofty.  Jack  had  seldom  seen  any  society  but  such  as  used  the  parlour 
of  the  taverns  which  he  frequented,  whereas  from  his  writing,  you 
would  have  supposed  that  he  dined  with  ambassadors,  and  that  his 
common  lounge  was  the  bow-window  of  White's.  Errors  of  descrip- 
tion, it  is  true,  occasionally  slipped  from  his  pen ;  but  the  "  Ballina- 
fad  Sentinel,"  of  which  he  was  own  correspondent,  suffered  by  these, 
not  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  in  which  Jack  was  not  permitted  to  write 
much,  his  London  chiefs  thinking  that  the  scissors  and  the  paste  were 
better  wielded  by  him  than  the  pen. 

Pen  took  a  great  deal  of  pains  with  the  writing  of  his  reviews,  and 
having  a  pretty  fair  share  of  desultory  reading,  acquired  in  the  early 
years  of  his  life,  an  eager  fancy  and  a  keen  sense  of  fun,  his  articles 
pleased  his  chief  and  the  public,  and  he  was  proud  to  think  that  he 
deserved  the  money  which  he  earned.  We  may  be  sure  that  the  "  Pall 
Mall  Gazette "  was  taken  in  regularly  at  Fairoaks,  and  read  with 
dehght  by  the  two  ladies  there.  It  was  received  at  Clavering  Park, 
too,  where  we  know  there  was  a  young  lady  of  great  literary  tastes  ; 
and  old  Dr.  Portman  himself,  to  whom  the  widow  sent  her  paper 
after  she  had  got  her  son's  articles  by  heart,  signified  his  approval  of 
Pen's  productions,  saying  that  the  lad  had  spirit,  taste,  and  fancy,  and 
wrote,  if  not  like  a  scholar,  at  any  rate  like  a  gentleman. 

And  what  was  the  astonishment  and  delight  of  our  friend  Major 
Pendennis,  on  walking  into  one  of  his  clubs,  the  Regent,  where 
Wenham,  Lord  Falconet,  and  some  other  gentlemen  of  good  reputa- 
tion and  fashion  were  assembled,  to  hear  them  one  day  talking  over  a 
number  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  and  of  an  article  which  appeared 
in  its  columns,  making  some  bitter  fun  of  a  book  recently  published 
by  the  wife  of  a  celebrated  member  of  the  opposition  party.     The 


340  PENDENNIS. 

bool;  in  question  was  a  Book  of  Travels  in  Spain  and  Italy,  by  the 
Countess  of  Muffborough,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to  say  which  was 
the  most  wonderful,  the  French  or  the  English,  in  which  languages 
her  ladyship  wrote  indifferently,  and  upon  the  blunders  of  which  the 
critic  pounced  with  delighted  mischief.  The  critic  was  no  other  than 
Pen:  he  jumped  and  danced  round  about  his  subject  with  the  greatest 
jocularity  and  high  spirits :  he  showed  up  the  noble  lady's  faults  with 
admirable  mock  gravity  and  decorum.  There  was  not  a  word  in  the 
article  which  was  not  polite  and  gentleman-like ;  and  the  unfortunate 
subject  of  the  criticism  was  scarified  and  laughed  at  during  the  opera- 
tion. Wenham's  bilious  countenance  was  puckered  up  with  malign 
pleasure  as  he  read  the  critique.  Lady  Muffborough  had  not  asked 
him  to  her  parties  during  the  last  year.  Lord  Falconet  giggled  and 
laughed  with  all  his  heart ;  Lord  Muffborough  and  he  had  been 
rivals  ever  since  they  began  life;  and  these  complimented  Major 
Pendennis,  who  until  now  had  scarcely  paid  any  attention  to  some 
hints  vv'hich  his  Fairoaks  correspondence  threw  out  of  "  dear  Arthur's 
constant  and  severe  literary  occupations,  which  I  fear  may  undermine 
the  poor  boy's  health,"  and  had  thought  any  notice  of  Mr.  Pen  and 
his  newspaper  connexions  quite  below  his  dignity  as  a  Major  and  a 
gentleman. 

But  when  the  oracular  Wenham  praised  the  boy's  production ; 
v.hen  Lord  Falconet,  who  had  had  the  news  from  Percy  Popjoy, 
approved  of  the  genius  of  young  Pen ;  when  the  great  Lord  Steyne 
himself,  to  whom  the  Major  referred  the  article,  laughed  and  snig- 
gered over  it,  swore  it  was  capital,  and  that  the  Muffborough  would 
writhe  under  it,  like  a  whale  under  a  harpoon,  the  Major,  as  in  duty 
bound,  began  to  admire  his  nephew  very  much,  said,  "  By  gad,  the 
•young  rascal  had  some  stuff  in  him,  and  would  do  something;  he  had 
always  said  he  would  do  something ;"  and  with  a  hand  quite  tremu- 
lous with  pleasure,  the  old  gentleman  sate  down  to  write  to  the  widow 
at  Fairoaks  all  that  the  great  folks  had  said  in  praise  of  Pen ;  and  he 
v.TOte  to  the  young  rascal,  too,  asking  when  he  would  come  and  eat  a 
chop  with  his  old  uncle,  and  saying  that  he  was  commissioned  to  take 
him  to  dinner  at  Gaunt  House,  for  Lord  Steyne  liked  anybody  who 
could  entertain  him,  whether  by  his  folly,  wit,  or  by  his  dulness,  by  his 
oddity,  affectation,  good  spirits,  or  any  other  quality.  Pen  flung  his 
letter  across  the  table  to  Warrington ;  perhaps  he  was  disappointed 
that  the  other  did  not  seem  to  be  much  affected  by  it. 

The  courage  of  young  critics  is  prodigious :  they  clamber  up  to 
the  judgment-seat,  and,  with  scarce  a  hesitation,  give  their  opinion 
upon  works  the  most  intricate  or  profound.  Had  Macaulay's  History 
or  Herschel's  Astronomy  been  put  before  Pen  at  this  period,  he  would 
have  looked  through  the  volumes,  meditated  his  opinion  over  a  cigar, 


PENDENNIS.  341 

and  signified  his  august  approval  of  either  author,  as  if  the  critic  hr.d 
been  their  born  superior  and  indulgent  master  and  patron.  By  the 
help  of  the  Biographic  Universelle  or  the  British  Museum,  he  would 
be  able  to  take  a  rapid  resume  of  an  historical  period,  and  allude  to 
names,  dates,  and  facts,  in  such  a  masterly,  easy  way,  as  to  astonish 
his  mamma  at  home,  who  wondered  where  her  boy  could  have 
acquired  such  a  prodigious  store  of  reading,  and  himself,  too,  when 
he  came  to  read  over  his  articles  two  or  three  months  after  they  had 
been  composed,  and  when  he  had  forgotten  the  subject  and  the  books 
which  he  had  consulted.  At  that  period  of  his  life  Mr.  Pen  ov^ns, 
that  he  would  not  have  hesitated,  at  twenty-four  hours'  notice,  to  pass 
an  opinion  upon  the  greatest  scholars,  or  to  give  a  judgment  upon  the 
Encyclopaedia.  Luckily  he  had  Warrington  to  laugh  at  him  and  to 
keep  down  his  impertinence  by  a  constant  and  wholesome  ridicule,  or 
he  might  have  become  conceited  beyond  all  sufferance;  for  Shandon 
liked  the  dash  and  flippancy  of  his  young  aide-de-camp,  and  v/as, 
indeed,  better  pleased  with  Pen's  light  and  brilliant  flashes,  than  with 
the  heavier  metal  which  h»«  elder  coadjutor  brought  to  bear. 

But  though  he  might  justly  be  blamed  on  the  score  of  impertinence 
and  a  certain  prematurity  of  judgment,  Mr.  Pen  was  a  perfectly  honest 
critic  ;  a  great  deal  too  candid  for  Mr.  Bungay's  purposes,  indeed,  who 
grumbled  sadly  at  his  impartiality.  Pen  and  his  chief,  the  Captain, 
had  a  dispute  upon  this  subject  one  day.  "  In  the  name  of  common 
sense,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Shandon  asked,  "  what  have  you  been  doing — 
praising  one  of  Mr.  Bacon's  books  ?  Bungay  has  been  with  me  in  a 
fury  this  morning,  at  seeing  a  laudatory  article  upon  one  of  the  works 
of  the  odious  firm  over  the  way." 

Pen's  eyes  opened  Avith  wide  astonishment.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say,"  he  asked,  "  that  we  are  to  praise  no  books  that  Bacon  publishes ; 
or  that,  if  the  books  are  good,  we  are  to  say  they  are  bad  t " 

"  My  good  young  friend — for  what  do  you  suppose  a  benevolent 
publisher  undertakes  a  critical  journal,  to  benefit  his  rival.?"  Shandon 
inquired. 

"  To  benefit  himself  certainly,  but  to  tell  the  truth  too,"  Pen  said — 
"  ruai  caelum,  to  tell  the  truth." 

"  And  my  prospectus,"  said  Shandon,  with  a  laugh  and  a  sneer ; 
"  do  you  consider  that  was  a  v/ork  of  mathematical  accuracy  of  state- 
ment ? " 

"  Pardon  me,  that  is  not  the  question,"  Pen  said ;  "  and  I  don't 
think  you  very  much  care  to  argue  it.  I  had  some  qualms  of  con- 
science about  that  same  prospectus,  and  debated  the  matter  with  my 
friend  Warrington.  We  agreed,  however,"  Pen  said,  laughing,  "  that 
because  the  prospectus  v/as  rather  declamatory  and  poetical,  and  the 
giant  was  painted  upon  the  shcw-boai'd  rather  larger  than  the  original 


342  PENDENNIS. 

who  was  inside  the  caravan,  we  need  not  be  too  scrupulous  about  this 
trifling  inaccuracy,  but  might  do  our  part  of  the  show,  without  loss  of 
character  or  remorse  of  conscience.  We  are  the  fiddlers,  and  play  our 
tunes  only ;  you  are  the  showman." 

••  And  leader  of  the  van,"  said  Shandon.  "  Well,  I  am  glad  that 
your  conscience  gave  you  leave  to  play  for  us." 

'■  Yes,  but,"  said  Pen,  with  a  fine  sense  of  the  dignity  of  his  position, 
"  we  are  all  party  men  in  England,  and  I  will  stick  to  my  party  like  a 
Briton.  I  will  be  as  good-natured  as  you  like  to  our  own  side,  he  is  a 
fool  who  quarrels  with  his  own  nest ;  and  I  will  hit  the  enemy  as  hard 
as  you  like — but  with  fair  play.  Captain,  if  you  please.  One  can't  tell 
all  the  truth,  I  suppose ;  but  one  can  tell  nothing  but  the  truth :  and  I 
would  rather  starve,  by  Jove,  and  never  earn  another  penny  by  my 
pen "  (this  redoubted  instrument  had  now  been  in  use  for  some  six 
weeks,  and  Pen  spoke  of  it  with  vast  enthusiasm  and  respect)  "  than 
strike  an  opponent  an  unfair  blow,  or,  if  called  upon  to  place  him, 
rank  him  below  his  honest  desert." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Pendennis,  when  we  want  Bacon  smashed,  we  must  get 
some  other  hammer  to  do  it,"  Shandon  said,  with  fatal  good-nature ; 
and  very  likely  thought  within  himself,  "  A  few  years  hence  perhaps 
the  young  gentleman  won't  be  so  squeamish."  The  veteran  Condottiere 
himself  was  no  longer  so  scrupulous.  He  had  fought  and  killed  on  so 
many  a  side  for  many  a  year  past,  that  remorse  had  long  left  him. 
"  Gad,"  said  he,  "  you've  a  tender  conscience,  Mr.  Pendennis.  It's 
the  luxury  of  all  novices,  and  I  may  have  had  one  once  myself;  but 
that  sort  of  bloom  wears  off  with  the  rubbing  of  the  world,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  the  trouble  myself  of  putting  on  an  artificial  complexion, 
like  our  pious  friend  Wenham,  or  our  model  of  virtue,  Wagg." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  some  people's  hypocrisy  is  not  better, 
Captain,  than  others'  cynicism." 

"  It's  more  profitable,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  Captain,  biting  his 
nails.  "  That  Wenham  is  as  dull  a  quack  as  ever  quacked :  and  you 
see  the  carriage  in  which  he  drove  to  dinner.  'Faith,  it'll  be  a  long 
time  before  Mrs.  Shandon  will  take  a  drive  in  her  own  chariot.  God 
help  her,  poor  thing ! "  And  Pen  went  away  from  his  chief,  after  their 
little  dispute  and  colloquy,  pointing  his  own  moral  to  the  Captain's 
tale,  and  thinking  to  himself,  "  Behold  this  man,  stored  with  genius, 
wit,  learning,  and  a  hundred  good  natural  gifts:  see  how  he  has 
wrecked  them,  by  paltering  with  his  honesty,  and  forgetting  to  respect 
himself.  Wilt  thou  remember  thyself,  O  Pen?  thou  art  conceited 
enough !  Wilt  thou  sell  thy  honour  for  a  bottle  ?  No,  by  heaven's 
grace,  we  will  be  honest  whatever  befals,  and  our  mouths  shall  only 
speak  the  truth  when  they  open." 

A  punishment,  or,  at  least,  a  trial,  was  in  store  for  Mr.  Pen.     In 


PENDENNIS.  343 

the  very  next  number  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  Warrington  read 
out,  with  roars  of  laughter,  an  article  which  by  no  means  amused 
Arthur  Pendennis,  who  was  himself  at  work  with  a  criticism  for  the 
next  week's  number  of  the  same  journal ;  and  in  which  the  "  Spring 
Annual "  was  ferociously  maltreated  by  some  unknown  writer.  The 
person  of  all  most  cruelly  mauled  was  Pen  himself.  His  verses  had 
not  appeared  with  his  own  name  in  the  "  Spring  Annual,"  but  under 
an  assumed  signature.  As  he  had  refused  to  review  the  book,  Shandon 
had  handed  it  over  to  Mr.  Bludyer,  witli  directions  to  that  author  to 
dispose  of  it.  And  he  had  done  so  effectually.  Mr.  Bludyer,  who 
was  a  man  of  very  considerable  talent,  and  of  a  race  which,  I  believe, 
is  quite  extinct  in  the  press  of  our  time,  had  a  certain  notoriety  in  his 
profession,  and  reputation  for  savage  humour.  He  smashed  and 
trampled  down  the  poor  spring  flowers  with  no  more  mercy  than 
a  bull  would  have  on  a  parterre ;  and  having  cut  up  the  volume  to  his 
heart's  content,  went  and  sold  it  at  a  bookstall,  and  purchased  a  pint 
of  brandy  with  the  proceeds  of  the  volume. 


344  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

WHERE  PEN  APPEARS  IN  TOWN  AND  COUNTRY. 

LET  US  be  allowed  to  pass  over  a  few  months  of  the  history  of 
Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis's  lifetime,  during  the  which,  many  events 
may  have  occurred  which  were  more  interesting  and  exciting  to  him- 
self, than  they  would  be  likely  to  prove  to  the  reader  of  his  present 
memoirs.  We  left  him,  in  the  last  chapter,  regularly  entered  upon  his 
business  as  a  professional  writer,  or  literary  hack,  as  Mr.  Warrington 
chooses  to  style  himself  and  his  friend;  and  we  know  how  the  life  of 
any  hack,  legal  or  literary,  in  a  curacy,  or  in  a  marching  regiment,  or 
at  a  merchant's  desk,  is  full  of  routine,  and  tedious  of  description. 
One  day's  labour  resem.bles  another  much  too  closely.  A  literary  man 
has  often  to  work  for  his  bread  against  time,  or  against  his  wiU,  or 
in  spite  of  his  health,  or  of  his  indolence,  or  of  his  repugnance  to  the 
subject  on  which  he  is  called  to  exert  himself,  just  like  any  other  daily 
toiler.  W^hen  you  want  to  make  money  by  Pegasus  (as  he  must, 
perhaps,  who  has  no  other  saleable  property),  farewell  poetr>'  and 
aerial  flights:  Pegasus  only  rises  now  like  Mr.  Green's  balloon,  at 
periods  advertised  beforehand,  and  when  the  spectators  money  has 
been  paid.  Pegasus  trots  in  harness,  over  the  stony  pavement,  and 
pulls  a  cart  or  a  cab  behind  him.  Often  Pegasus  does  his  work  with 
panting  sides  and  trembling  knees,  and  not  seldom  gets  a  cut  of  the 
whip  from  his  driver. 

Do  not  let  us,  however,  be  too  prodigal  of  our  pity  upon  Pegasus. 
There  is  no  reason  why  this  animal  should  be  exempt  from  labour,  or 
illness,  or  decay,  any  more  than  any  of  the  other  creatures  of  God's 
world.  If  he  gets  the  whip,  Pegasus  very  often  deserv-es  it,  and  I  for 
one  am  quite  ready  to  protest  with  my  friend,  George  Warrington, 
against  the  doctrine  which  some  poetical  sympathisers  are  inclined  to 
put  forward,  viz.  that  men  of  letters,  and  what  is  called  genius,  are 
to  be  exempt  from  the  prose  duties  of  this  daily,  bread-wanting, 
tax-paying  life,  and  are  not  to  be  made  to  work  and  pay  like  their 
neighbours. 

Well,  then,  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette  "  being  duly  established,  and 
Arthur  Pendennis's  merits  recognized  as  a  flippant,  witty,  and  amusing 
critic,  he  worked  away  hard  every  week,  preparing  reviews  of  such 


PENDENN/S.  345 

works  as  came  into  his  department,  and  writing  his  reviews  with  flip- 
pancy certainly,  but  with  honesty,  and  to  the  best  of  his  power.  It 
might  be  that  a  historian  of  threescore,  who  had  spent  a  quarter  of  a 
century  in  composing  a  work  of  which  our  young  gentleman  disposed 
in  the  course  of  a  couple  of  days'  reading  at  the  British  Museum,  was 
not  altogether  fairly  treated  by  such  a  facile  critic ;  or  that  a  poet,  who 
had  been  elaborating  sublime  sonnets  and  odes  until  he  thought  them 
fit  for  the  public  and  for  fame,  was  annoyed  by  two  or  three  dozen 
pert  lines  in  Mr.  Pen's  review,  in  which  the  poet's  claims  were  settled 
by  the  critic,  as  if  the  latter  were  my  lord  on  the  bench,  and  the  autho? 
a  miserable  little  suitor  trembling  before  him.  The  actors  at  the 
theatres  complained  of  him  wofully,  too,  and  very  likely  he  was  too 
hard  upon  them.  But  there  was  not  much  harm  done  after  all.  It  is 
different  now,  as  we  know ;  but  there  were  so  few  great  historians,  or 
great  poets,  or  great  actors,  in  Pen's  time,  that  scarce  any  at  all  came 
up  for  judgment  before  his  critical  desk.  Those  who  got  a  little 
whipping,  got  what  in  the  main  was  good  for  them ;  not  that  the  judge 
was  any  better  or  wiser  than  the  persons  whom  he  sentenced,  or 
indeed  ever  fancied  himself  so.  Pen  had  a  strong  sense  of  humour 
and  justice,  and  had  not  therefore  an  overweening  respect  for  his  own 
works ;  besides,  he  had  his  friend  Warrington  at  his  elbow — a  terrible 
critic  if  the  young  man  was  disposed  to  be  conceited,  and  more 
savage  over  Pen  than  ever  he  was  to  those  whom  he  tried  at  his 
literary  assize. 

By  these  critical  labours,  and  by  occasional  contributions  to  leading 
articles  of  the  journal,  when,  without  wounding  his  paper,  this  eminent 
publicist  could  conscientiously  speak  his  mind,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis 
gained  the  sum  of  four  pounds  four  shillings  weekly,  and  with  no  small 
pains  and  labour.  Likewise  he  furnished  Magazines  and  Reviews  with 
articles  of  his  composition,  and  is  believed  to  have  been  (though  on 
this  score  he  never  chooses  to  speak)  London  correspondent  of  the 
Chatteris  Champion,  which  at  that  time  contained  some  very  brilliant 
and  eloquent  letters  from  the  metropolis.  By  these  labours  the  fortu- 
nate youth  was  enabled  to  earn  a  sum  very  nearly  equal  to  four  hundred 
pounds  a-year;  and  on  the  second  Christmas  after  his  arrival  in 
London,  he  actually  brought  a  hundred  pounds  to  his  mother,  as  a 
dividend  upon  the  debt  which  he  owed  to  Laura,  That  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis read  every  word  of  her  son's  works,  and  considered  him  to  be 
the  profoundest  thinker  and  most  elegant  writer  of  the  day ;  that  she 
thought  his  retribution  of  the  hundred  pounds  an  act  of  angehc  virtue  ; 
that  she  feared  he  was  ruining  his  health  by  his  labours,  and  was 
delighted  when  he  told  her  of  the  society  which  he  met,  and  of  the 
great  men  of  letters  and  fashion  whom  he  saw,  will  be  imagined  by  all 
readers  who  have  seen  son-worship  amongst  mothers,  atid  that  charm- 


-^6  PENDENXIS. 

in'^  simplicity  of  love  with  which  women  in  the  countr>-  Tvatch  the 
career  of  their  darlings  in  London.  If  John  has  held  such  and  such  a 
brief;  if  Tom  has  been  invited  to  such  and  such  a  ball;  or  George 
has  met  this  or  that  great  and  famous  man  at  dinner;  what  a  delight 
there  is  in  the  hearts  of  mothers  and  sisters  at  home  in  Somersetshire ! 
How  young  Hopeful's  letters  are  read  and  remembered  !  \\Tiat  a 
theme  for  village  talk  they  give,  and  friendly  congratulation  !  In  the 
second  winter,  Pen  came  for  a  very  brief  space,  and  cheered  the 
widow's  heart,  and  lightened  up  the  lonely  house  at  Fairoaks.  Helen 
had  her  son  all  to  herself;  Laura  was  away  on  a  visit  to  old  Lady 
Rockminster ;  the  folks  of  Clavering  Park  were  absent ;  the  very  fev/ 
old  friends  of  the  house,  Doctor  Portman  at  their  head,  called  upon 
Mr.  Pen,  and  treated  him  with  marked  respect ;  between  mother  and 
son.  it  was  all  fondness,  confidence,  and  aftection.  It  was  the  happiest 
fortnight  of  the  widow's  whole  life ;  perhaps  in  the  lives  of  both  of 
them.  The  holiday  was  gone  only  too  quickly  ;  and  Pen  was  back  in 
the  busy  world,  and  the  gentle  widow  alone  again.  She  sent  Arthurs 
money  to  Laura :  I  don't  know  why  this  young  lady  took  the  oppor- 
tunity of  leaving  home  when  Pen  was  coming  thither,  or  whether  he 
was  the  more  piqued  or  relieved  by  her  absence. 

He  was  by  this  time,  by  his  own  merits  and  his  uncle's  introduc- 
tions, pretty  well  introduced  into  London,  and  known  both  in  literary 
and  polite  circles.  Amongst  the  former,  his  fashionable  reputation 
stood  him  in  no  little  stead ;  he  was  considered  to  be  a  gentleman  of 
good  present  means  and  better  expectations,  who  wrote  for  his 
pleasure,  than  which  there  cannot  be  a  greater  recommendation  to  a 
young  literar)^  aspirant.  Bacon,  Bungay  and  Co.,  were  proud  to 
accept  his  articles;  Mr.  Wenham  asked  him  to  dinner;  Mr.  Wagg 
looked  upon  him  with  a  favourable  eye ;  and  they  reported  how  they 
met  him  at  the  houses  of  persons  of  fashion,  amongst  whom  he  v%-as 
pretty  welcome,  as  they  did  not  trouble  themselves  about  his  means, 
present  or  future;  as  his  appearance  and  address  were  good;  and  as 
he  had  got  a  character  for  being  a  clever  fellow.  Finally,  he  was 
asked  to  one  house,  because  he  was  seen  at  another  house :  and  thus 
no  small  varieties  of  London  life  were  presented  to  the  young  man : 
he  was  made  familiar  with  all  sorts  of  people  from  Paternoster  Row 
to  Pimlico,  and  was  as  much  at  home  at  l\Ia\'fair  dining-tables  as  at 
those  tavern  boards  where  some  of  his  companions  of  the  pen  were 
accustomed  to  assemble. 

Full  of  high  spirits  and  curiosity,  easily  adapting  himself  to  all 
whom  he  met,  the  young  fellow  pleased  himself  in  this  strange 
variety  and  jumble  of  men,  and  made  himself  welcome,  or  at  ease 
at  least,  wherever  he  went.  He  would  breakfast,  for  instance,  at 
Mr.  Plover's  of  a  morning,    in    company   with  a  Peer,  a  Bishop,  a 


PENDENNIS.  347 

parliamentary  orator,  two  blue  ladies  of  fashion,  a  popular  preacher, 
the  author  of  the  last  new  novel,  and  the  very  latest  lion  imported 
from  Egypt  or  from  America ;  and  would  quit  this  distinguished 
society  for  the  back  room  at  the  newspaper  office,  where  pens  and 
ink  and  the  wet  proof-sheets  were  awaiting  him.  Here  would  be 
Finucane,  the  sub-editor,  with  the  last  news  from  the  Ro\v  :  and 
Shandon  would  come  in  presently,  and  giving  a  nod  to  Pen,  would 
begin  scribbling  his  leading  article  at  the  other  end  of  the  table, 
flanked  by  the  pint  of  sherry,  which,  when  the  attendant  boy  beheld 
him,  was  always  silently  brought  for  the  Captain:  or  Mr.  Bludyer's 
roaring  voice  would  be  heard  in  the  front  room,  where  that  truculent 
critic  would  impound  the  books  on  the  counter  in  spite  of  the  timid 
remonstrances  of  Mr.  Midge,  the  publisher,  and  after  looking  through 
the  volumes  would  sell  them  at  his  accustomed  book-stall,  and  having 
drunken  and  dined  upon  the  produce  of  the  sale  in  a  tavern  box, 
would  call  for  ink  and  paper,  and  proceed  to  "  smash  "  the  author  of 
his  dinner  and  the  novel.  Towards  evening  Mr.  Pen  would  stroll  in 
the  direction  of  his  club,  and  take  up  Warrington  there  for  a  constitu- 
tional walk.  This  exercise  freed  the  lungs,  and  gave  an  appetite  for 
dinner,  after  which  Pen  had  the  privilege  to  make  his  bow  at  some 
ver>'  pleasant  houses  which  were  opened  to  him:  or  the  town  before 
him  for  amusement.  There  was  the  Opera;  or  the  Eagle  Tavern;  or 
a  ball  to  go  to  in  Mayfair;  or  a  quiet  night  with  a  cigar  and  a  book 
and  a  long  talk  with  Warrington ;  or  a  wonderful  new  song  at  the 
Back  Kitchen ; — at  this  time  of  his  life  Mr.  Pen  beheld  all  sorts  of 
places  and  men ;  and  very  likely  did  not  know  how  much  he  enjoyed 
himself  until  long  after,  when  balls  gave  him  no  pleasure,  neither  did 
farces  make  him  laugh;  nor  did  the  tavern  joke  produce  the  least 
excitement  in  him ;  nor  did  the  loveliest  dancer  that  ever  showed  her 
anldes  cause  him  to  stir  from  his  chair  after  dinner.  At  his  present 
mature  age  all  these  pleasures  are  over :  and  the  times  have  passed 
away  too.  It  is  but  a  very  few  years  since — but  the  time  is  gone,  and 
most  of  the  men.  Bludyer  will  no  more  bully  authors  or  cheat  land- 
lords of  their  score.  Shandon,  the  learned  and  thriftless,  the  witty 
and  unwise,  sleeps  his  last  sleep.  They  buried  honest  Doolan  the 
other  day:  never  will  he  cringe  or  flatter,  never  pull  long-bow  or  empty 
whisky-noggin  any  more. 

The  London  season  was  now  blooming  in  its  full  vigour,  and  the 
fashionable  newspapers  abounded  with  information  regarding  the 
grand  banquets,  routs  and  balls  which  were  enlivening  the  polite 
world.  Our  gracious  Sovereign  was  holding  levees  and  drawing- 
rooms  at  St.  James's:  the  bow-windows  of  the  clubs  were  crowded 
■with  the  heads  of  respectable  red-faced  newspaper-reading  gentlemen: 


348  FENDENNIS. 

along  the  Serpentine  trailed  thousands  of  carriages:  squadrons  of 
dandy  horsemen  trampled  over  Rotten  Row :  everybody  was  in  town 
in  a  word;  and  of  course  Major  Arthur  Pendennis,  who  was  somebody, 
was  not  absent. 

With  his  head  tied  up  in  a  smart  bandana  handkerchief,  and  his 
meagre  carcass  enveloped  in  a  brilliant  Turkish  dressing-gown,  the 
worthy  gentleman  sate  on  a  certain  morning  by  his  lire-side,  letting 
his  feet  gently  simmer  in  a  bath,  whilst  he  took  his  early  cup  of  tea, 
and  perused  his  "  Morning  Post."  He  could  not  have  faced  the  day 
without  his  two  hours'  toilet,  without  his  early  cup  of  tea,  without  his 
"  Morning  Post.''  I  suppose  nobody  in  the  world  except  Morgan,  not 
even  Morgan's  master  himself,  knew  how  feeble  and  ancient  the  !Major 
was  growing,  and  what  numberless  little  comforts  he  required. 

If  men  sneer,  as  our  habit  is,  at  the  .artifices  of  an  old  beauty,  at 
her  paint,  perfumes,  ringlets  ;  at  those  innumerable,  and  to  us  unknown 
stratagems  with  which  she  is  said  to  remedy  the  ravages  of  time 
and  reconstruct  the  charms  whereof  years  have  bereft  her  ;  the  ladies, 
it  is  to  be  presumed,  are  not  on  their  side  altogether  ignorant  that 
men  are  vain  as  well  as  they,  and  that  the  toilets  of  old  bucks  are  to 
the  full  as  elaborate  as  their  own.  How  is  it  that  old  Blushingtcn 
keeps  that  constant  little  rose-tint  on  his  cheeks  ;  and  where  does 
old  Blondel  get  the  preparation  which  makes  his  silver  hair  pass  for 
golden?  Have  you  ever  seen  Lord  Hotspur  get  off  his  horse  when 
he  thinks  nobody  is  looking?  Taken  out  of  his  stirrups,  his  shiny 
boots  can  hardly  totter  up  the  steps  of  Hotspur  House.  He  is  a 
dashing  young  nobleman  still  as  you  see  the  back  of  him  in  Rotten 
Row  ;  when  you  behold  him  on  foot,  what  an  old,  old  fellow  !  Did 
you  ever  form  to  yourself  any  idea  of  Dick  Lacy  (Dick  has  been  Dick 
these  sixty  years)  in  a  natural  state  and  without  his  stays?  All  these 
men  are  objects  whom  the  observer  of  human  life  and  manners  may 
contemplate  with  as  much  profit  as  the  most  elderly  Belgravian  Venus, 
or  inveterate  Mayfair  Jezebel.  An  old  reprobate  daddy-longlegs,  who 
has  never  said  his  prayers  (except  perhaps  in  public)  these  fifty  years  : 
an  old  buck  who  still  clings  to  as  many  of  the  habits  of  youth  as  his 
feeble  grasp  of  health  can  hold  by  :  who  has  given  up  the  bottle,  but 
sits  with  young  fellows  over  it,  and  tells  naughty  stories  upon  toast- 
and-water — who  has  given  up  beauty,  but  still  talks  about  it  as 
wickedly  as  the  youngest  roue  in  company — such  an  old  fellow,  I  say, 
if  any  parson  in  Pimlico  or  St.  James's  were  to  order  the  beadles  to 
bring  him  into  the  middle  aisle,  and  there  set  him  in  an  arm-chair, 
and  make  a  text  of  him,  and  preach  about  him  to  the  congregation, 
could  be  turned  to  a  wholesome  use  for  once  in  his  life,  and  might  be 
surprised  to  find  that  some  good  thoughts  came  out  of  him.  But  we 
are  wandering  from  our  text,  the  honest  Major,  who  sits  all  this  while 


PENDENNIS.  349 

wkh  his  feet  cooling  in  the  bath  :  Morgan  takes  them  out  of  that  place 
of  purification,  and  dries  them  daintily,  and  proceeds  to  set  the  old 
gentleman  on  his  legs,  with  waistband  and  wig,  starched  cravat,  and 
spotless  boots  and  gloves. 

It  was  during  these  hours  of  the  toilet  that  Morgan  and  his 
employer  had  their  confidential  conversations,  for  they  did  not  meet 
much  at  other  times  of  the  day — the  Major  abhorring  the  society  of 
his  own  chairs  and  tables  in  his  lodgings  ;  and  Morgan,  his  master's 
toilet  over  and  letters  delivered,  had  his  time  very  much  on  his  own 
hands. 

This  spare  time  the  active  and  well-mannered  gentleman  bestowed 
among  the  valets  and  butlers  of  the  nobility,  his  acquaintance  ;  and 
Morgan  Pendennis,  as  he  was  styled,  for,  by  such  compound  names, 
gentlemen's  gentlemen  are  called  in  their  private  circles,  v/as  a  frequent 
and  welcome  guest  at  some  of  the  very  highest  tables  in  this  town. 
He  was  a  member  of  two  influential  clubs  in  Mayfair  and  Pimlico  ; 
and  he  was  thus  enabled  to  know  the  whole  gossip  of  the  town,  and 
entertain  his  master  very  agreeably  during  the  two  hours'  toilet  con- 
versation. He  knew  a  hundred  tales  and  legends  regarding  persons 
of  the  very  highest  ion,  whose  valets  canvass  their  august  secrets, 
just,  my  dear  madam,  as  our  own  parlour-maids  and  dependants  in 
the  kitchen  discuss  our  characters,  our  stinginess  and  generosity,  our 
pecuniary  means  or  embarrassments,  and  our  little  domestic  or  con- 
nubial tiffs  and  quarrels.  If  I  leave  this  manuscript  open  on  my 
table,  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  Betty  will  read  it,  and  they  will 
talk  it  over  in  the  lower  regions  to-night  ;  and  to-morrow  she  will 
bring  in  my  breakfast  with  a  face  of  such  entire  imperturbable 
innocence,  that  no  mortal  could  suppose  her  guilty  of  playing  the 
spy.  If  you  and  the  Captain  have  high  words  upon  any  subject, 
which  is  just  possible,  the  circumstances  of  the  quarrel,  and  the 
characters  of  both  of  you,  will  be  discussed  with  impartial  eloquence 
over  the  kitchen  tea-table  ;  and  if  Mrs.  Smith's  maid  should  by 
chance  be  taking  a  dish  of  tea  with  yours,  her  presence  will  not 
undoubtedly  act  as  a  restraint  upon  the  discussion  in  question  ;  her 
opinion  will  be  given  with  candour ;  and  the  next  day  her  mistress 
v/ill  probably  know  that  Captam  and  Mrs.  Jones  have  been  a 
quarrelling  as  usual.  Nothing  is  secret.  Take  it  as  a  rule  that  John 
knows  everything  :  and  as  in  our  humble  world,  so  in  the  greatest :  a 
duke  is  no  more  a  hero  to  his  valei-dc-chanibre  than  you  or  I  ;  and  his 
Grace's  Man  at  his  club,  in  company  doubtless  with  other  Men  of 
equal  social  rank,  talks  over  his  master's  character  and  affairs  with  the 
ingenuous  truthfulness  which  befits  gentlemen  who  are  met  together  in 
confidence.  Who  is  a  niggard  and  screws  up  his  money-boxes  :  who 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  money-lenders,  and  is  putting  his  noble  name 


iSo 


PENBENNIS. 


on  the  back  of  bills  of  exchange  ;  who  is  intimate  with  whose  wife  : 
who  wants  whom  to  marry  her  daughter,  and  which  he  won't — no.  not 
at  any  price  : — all  these  facts  gentlemen's  confidential  gentlemen 
discuss  confidentially,  and  are  known  and  examined  by  every  person 
who  has  any  claim  to  rank  in  genteel  society.  In  a  word,  if  old 
Pendennis  himself  was  said  to  know  everything,  and  was  at  once 
admirably  scandalous  and  delightfully  discreet ;  it  is  but  justice  to 
Morgan  to  say,  that  a  great  deal  of  his  master's  information  was 
supplied  to  that  worthy  man  by  his  valet,  who  went  out  and  foraged 
knowledge  for  him.  Indeed,  what  more  effectual  plan  is  there  to  get 
a  knowledge  of  London  society,  than  to  begin  at  the  foundation — 
that  is,  at  the  kitchen-floor  ? 

So  Mr.  Morgan  and  his  employer  conversed  as  the  latters  toilet 
proceeded.  There  had  been  a  drawing-room  on  the  day  previous, 
and  the  Major  read  among  the  presentations  that  of  Lady  Clavering 
by  Lady  Rockminster,  and  of  Miss  Amory  by  her  mother  Lady 
Clavering, — and  in  a  further  part  of  the  paper  their  dresses  were 
described,  with  a  precision  and  in  a  jargon  which  wiU  puzzle  and 
amuse  the  antiquary  of  future  generations.  The  sight  of  these  names 
carried  Pendennis  back  to  the  country.  "  How  long  have  the  Claver- 
ings  been  in  London?"  he  asked;  "pray,  Morgan,  have  you  seen  any 
of  their  people  ? " 

"  Sir  Francis  have  sent  away  his  foring  man,  sir,"  Mr.  Morgan 
replied ;  "  and  have  took  a  friend  of  mine  as  own  man,  sir.  Indeed 
he  applied  on  my  reckmendation.  You  may  recklect  Towler,  sir, — 
tall  red-'aired  man — but  dyes  his  'air.  Was  groom  of  the  chambers  in 
Lord  Levant's  fam'ly  till  his  lordship  broke  hup.  It's  a  faU  for 
Towler,  sir:  but  pore  men  can't  be  particklar,"  said  the  valet,  with  a 
pathetic  voice. 

"  Devilish  hard  on  Towler,  by  gad ! "  said  the  :\Iajor,  amused,  "  and 
not  pleasant  for  Lord  Levant — he,  he  ! " 

'•  Always  knew  it  was  coming,  sir.  I  spoke  to  you  of  it  Michaelmas 
was  four  years :  when  her  ladyship  put  the  diamonds  in  pawn.  It 
was  Towler,  sir,  took  'em  in  two  cabs  to  Dobree"s — and  a  good  deal 
of  the  plate  went  the  same  way.  Don't  you  remember  seeing  of  it  at 
Blackwall,  with  the  Levant  arms  and  coronick,  and  Lord  Levant  sett'n 
opp'sit  to  it  at  the  Marquis  of  Ste>Tie's  dinner  ?  Beg  your  pardon ; 
did  I  cut  you,  sir  ?  " 

Morgan  was  now  operating  upon  the  Major's  chin — he  continued 
the  theme  while  strapping  the  skilful  razor.  "  They've  took  a  house 
in  Grosvenor  Place,  and  are  coming  out  strong,  sir.  Her  ladyship's 
going  to  give  three  parties,  besides  a  dinner  a-week,  sir.  Her  fortune 
won't  stand  it— can't  stand  it." 

"  Gad,  she  had  a  devilish  good  cook  when  I  was  at  Fairoaks," 


PENDENNIS.  351 

the  Major  said,  with  very  little  compassion  for  the  widow  Amory's 
fortune. 

"  Marobblan  was  his  name,  sir ; — Marobblan's  gone  away,  sir," 
Morgan  said, — and  the  Major,  this  time,  with  hearty  sympathy,  said 
"  he  was  devihsh  sorry  to  lose  him." 

"  There's  been  a  tremenjuous  row  about  that  Mosseer  Marobblan," 
Morgan  continued.  "  At  a  ball  at  Baymouth,  sir,  bless  his  impadence, 
he  challenged  Mr.  Harthur  to  nght  a  jewel,  sir,  which  Mr.  Harthur  was 
very  near  knocking  him  down,  and  pitchin'  him  outawinder,  and  serve 
him  right ;  but  Chevalier  Strong,  sir,  came  up  and  stopped  the  shindy 
— I  beg  pardon,  the  holtercation,  sir — them  French  cooks  has  as  much 
pride  and  insolence  as  if  they  was  real  gentlemen." 

"  I  heard  something  of  that  quarrel,"  said  the  Major;  "but  Miro- 
bolant  was  not  turned  off  for  that  ?" 

"  No,  sir — that  affair,  sir,  which  Mr.  Harthur  forgave  it  him  and 
be'aved  most  handsome,  was  hushed  hup :  it  was  about  Miss  Hamory, 
sir,  that  he  'ad  'is  dismissial.  Those  French  fellers,  they  fancy  every- 
body is  in  love  with  'em ;  and  he  climbed  up  the  large  grape  vine  to 
her  winder,  sir,  and  was  trying  to  get  in,  when  he  was  caught,  sir ; 
and  Mr.  Strong  came  out,  and  they  got  the  garden-engine  and  played 
on  him,  and  there  was  no  end  of  a  row,  sir." 

"  Confound  his  impudence  !  You  don't  mean  to  say  Miss  Amory 
encouraged  him,"  cried  the  Major,  amazed  at  a  peculiar  expression  m 
Mr.  Morgan's  countenance. 

Morgan  resumed  his  imperturbable  demeanour.  "  Know  nothing 
about  it,  sir.  Servants  don't  know  them  kind  of  things  the  least. 
Most  probbly  there  was  nothing  in  it — so  many  lies  is  told  about 
families — Marobblan  went  away,  bag  and  baggage,  saucepans,  and 
pianna,  and  all — the  fellow  'ad  a  pianna,  and  wrote  potry  in  French, 
and  he  took  a  lodging  at  Clavering,  and  he  hankered  about  the 
primises,  and  it  was  said  that  Madame  Fribsby,  the  milliner,  brought 
letters  to  Miss  Hamory,  though  I  don't  believe  a  word  about  it;  nor 
that  he  tried  to  pison  hisself  with  charcoal,  which  it  was  all  a  humbug 
betwigst  him  and  Madam  Fribsby  ;  and  he  was  nearly  shot  by  the 
keeper  in  the  park." 

In  the  course  of  that  very  day,  it  chanced  that  the  Major  had 
stationed  himself  in  the  great  window  of  Bays's  Club  in  St.  James's 
Street,  at  the  hour  in  the  afternoon  when  you  see  a  half-score  of 
respectable  old  bucks  similarly  recreating  themselves  (Bays's  is  rather 
an  old-fashioned  place  of  resort  now,  and  many  of  its  members  more 
than  middle-aged ;  but  in  the  time  of  the  Prince  Regent,  these  old 
fellows  occupied  the  same  window,  and  were  some  of  the  very  greatest 
dandies  in  this  empire) — Major  Pendennis  was  looking  from  the  great 


352  PENDENNIS. 


wi 


ndow,  and  spied  his  nephew  Arthur  walking  down  the  street  in 
company  with  his  friend  Mr.  Popjoy." 

"  Look  ! "  said  Popjoy  to  Pen,  as  they  passed,  "  did  you  ever  pass 
Bays's  at  four  o'clock,  without  seeing  that  collection  of  old  fogies  ?  It's 
a  regular  museum.  They  ought  to  be  cast  in  wax,  and  set  up  at 
Madame  Tussaud's — " 

<._In  a  chamber  of  old  horrors  by  themselves,"  Pen  said,  laughing. 

'• — In  the  chamber  of  horrors  !  Gad,  dooced  good  ! "  Pop  cried. 
''They  are  old  rogues,  most  of  'em,  and  no  mistake.  There's  old 
Blondel ;  there's  my  uncle  Colchicum,  the  most  confounded  old  sinner 
in  Europe  ;  there's— hullo  !  there's  somebody  rapping  the  window  and 
nodding  at  us." 

"It's  my  uncle,  the  Major,"  said  Pen.  "Is  he  an  old  sinner 
too?" 

"  Notorious  old  rogue,"  Pop  said,  wagging  his  head.  ('•  Notowious 
•old  wogue,"  he  pronounced  the  words,  thereby  rendering  them  much 
more  emphatic.)    "  He's  beckoning  you  in  ;  he  wants  to  speak  to  you." 

"  Come  in  too,"  Pen  said. 

" — Can't,"  replied  the  other.  "  Cut  uncle  Col.  two  years  ago, 
about  Mademoiselle  Frangipane. — Ta,  ta,"  and  the  young  sinner  took 
leave  of  Pen,  and  the  club  of  the  elder  criminals,  and  sauntered  into 
Blacquiere's,  an  adjacent  establishment,  frequented  by  reprobates  of 
his  own  age. 

Colchicum,  Blondel,  and  the  senior  bucks  had  just  been  conversing 
.about  the  Clavering  family,  whose  appearance  in  London  had  formed 
the  subject  of  Major  Pendennis's  morning  conversation  with  his  valet. 
Mr.  Blondel's  house  was  next  to  that  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  in 
Grosvenor  Place  :  giving  very  good  dinners  himself,  he  had  remarked 
some  activity  in  his  neighbour's  kitchen.  Sir  Francis,  indeed,  had  a 
iiew  chef,  who  had  come  in  more  than  once  and  dressed  Mr.  Blondel's 
•dinner  for  him  ;  that  gentleman  having  only  a  remarkably  expert 
female  artist  permanently  engaged  in  his  establishment,  and  employing 
such  chefs  of  note  as  happened  to  be  free  on  the  occasion  of  his  grand 
banquets.  "  They  go  to  a  devilish  expense  and  see  devilish  bad 
company  as  yet,  I  hear,  Mr.  Blondel  said, — they  scour  the  streets,  by 
gad,  to  get  people  to  dine  with  'em.  Champignon  says  it  breaks  his 
heart  to  serve  up  a  dinner  to  their  society.  What  a  shame  it  is  that 
those  low  people  should  have  money  at  all,"  cried  Mr.  Blondel,  whose 
grandfather  had  been  a  reputable  leather-breeches  maker,  and  whose 
father  had  lent  money  to  the  Princes. 

"  I  wish  I  had  fallen  in  with  the  widow  myself,"  sighed  Lord 
Colchicum,  "and  not  been  laid  up  with  that  confounded  gout  at 
Leghorn. — I  would  have  married  the  woman  myself. — I'm  told  she 
has  six  hundred  thousand  pounds  in  the  Threes." 


PENDENNIS.  553 

"  Not  quiit;  so  much  as  that, — I  knew  lier  family  in  India," — Major 
Pendennis  said.  "I  knew  her  family  in  India;  her  father  was  an 
enormously  rich  old  indigo-planter, — know  all  about  her, — Clavering 
has  the  next  estate  to  ours  in  the  country. — Ha !  there's  my  nephew 
walking  with  "' — "  With  mine, — the  infernal  young  scamp,"  said  Lord 
Colchicum,  glowering  at  Popjoy  out  of  his  heavy  eyebrows ;  and  he 
turned  away  from  the  window  as  Major  Pendennis  tapped  upon  it. 

The  Major  was  in  high  good-humour.  The  sun  was  bright,  the 
air  brisk  and  invigorating.  He  had  determined  upon  a  visit  to  Lady 
Clavering  on  that  day,  and  bethought  him  that  Arthur  would  be  a 
good  companion  for  the  walk  across  the  Green  Park  to  her  ladyship's 
door.  Master  Pen  was  not  displeased  to  accompany  his  illustrious 
relative,  who  pointed  out  a  dozen  great  men  in  their  brief  transit 
through  St.  James's  Street,  and  got  bows  from  a  Duke,  at  a  crossing, 
a  Bishop  (on  a  cob),  and  a  Cabinet  Minister  with  an  umbrella.  The 
Duke  gave  the  elder  Pendennis  a  finger  of  a  pipe-clayed  glove  to 
shake,  which  the  Major  embraced  with  great  veneration ;  and  all 
Pen's  blood  tingled,  as  he  found  himself  in  actual  communication,  as 
it  were,  with  this  famous  man  (for  Pen  had  possession  of  the  Major's 
left  arm,  whilst  that  gentleman's  other  wing  was  engaged  with  his 
Grace's  right),  and  he  wished  all  Grey  Friars'  School,  all  Oxbridge 
University,  all  Paternoster  Row  and  the  Temple,  and  Laura  and  his 
mother  at  Fairoaks,  could  be  standing  on  each  side  of  the  street,  to 
see  the  meeting  between  him  and  his  uncle,  and  the  most  famous 
duke  in  Christendom. 

"  How  do,  Pendennis  ? — fine  day,"  were  his  Grace's  remarkable 
words,  and  with  a  nod  of  his  august  head  he  passed  on — in  a  blue 
frock-coat  and  spotless  white  duck  trowsers.  in  a  white  stock,  with  a 
shining  buckle  behind. 

Old  Pendeniiis,  whose  likeness  to  his  grace  has  been  remarked, 
began  to  imitate  him  unconsciously,  after  they  had  parted,  speaking 
with  curt  sentences,  after  the  manner  of  the  great  man.  We  have  all 
of  us,  no  doubt,  met  with  more  than  one  military  officer  who  has  so 
imitated  the  manner  of  a  certain  Great  Captain  of  the  Age ;  and  has, 
perhaps,  changed  his  own  natural  character  and  disposition,  because 
Fate  had  endowed  him  with  an  aquiline  nose.  In  like  manner  have 
we  not  seen  many  another  man  pride  himself  on  having  a  tall  fore- 
head and  a  supposed  likeness  to  Mr.  Canning?  many  another  go 
through  life  swelling  with  self-gratification  on  account  of  an  imagined 
resemblance  (we  say  "  imagined,"  because  that  anybody  should  be 
really  like  that  most  beautiful  and  perfect  of  men  is  impossible)  to  the 
great  and  revered  George  IV. :  many  third  parties,  who  wore  low 
necks  to  their  dresses  because  they  fancied  that  Lord  Byron  and 
themselves  were  similar  in  appearance :  and  has  not  the  grave  closed 

23 


354 


PENDENNIS. 


but  lately  upon  poor  Tom  Bickerstaff,  who  having  no  more  imagina- 
tion than  Mr.  Joseph  Hume,  looked  in  the  glass  and  fancied  himself 
like  Shakspeare  ?  shaved  his  forehead  so  as  farther  to  resemble  the 
immortal  bard,  wrote  tragedies  incessantly,  and  died  perfectly  crazy — 
actually  perished  of  his  forehead  ?  These  or  similar  freaks  of  vanity 
most  people  who  have  frequented  the  world  must  have  seen  in  their 
experience.  Pen  laughed  in  his  roguish  sleeve  at  the  manner  in  which 
his  uncle  began  to  imitate  the  great  man  from  whom  they  had  just 
parted :  but  Mr.  Pen  was  as  vain  in  his  own  way,  perhaps,  as  the  elder 
gentleman,  and  strutted,  with  a  very  consequential  air  of  his  own,  by 
the  Major's  side. 

"Yes,  my  dear  boy,"  said  the  old  bachelor,  as  they  sauntered 
through  the  Green  Park,  where  m.any  poor  children  were  disporting 
happily,  and  errand  boys  were  playing  at  toss  halfpenny,  and  black 
sheep  were  grazing  in  the  sunshine,  and  an  actor  was  learning  his  part 
on  a  bench,  and  nursery  maids  and  their  charges  sauntered  here  and 
there,  and  several  couples  were  walking  in  a  leisurely  manner ;  "  yes, 
depend  on  it,  my  boy ;  for  a  poor  man,  there  is  nothing  like  having 
good  acquaintances.  Who  were  those  men,  with  whom  you  saw  me  in 
the  bow  window  at  Bays's  ?  Two  were  Peers  of  the  realm.  Hobananob 
will  be  a  Peer,  as  soon  as  his  grand-uncle  dies,  and  he  has  had  his 
third  seizure;  and  of  the  other  four,  not  one  has  less  than  his  seven 
thousand  a-year.  Did  you  see  that  dark  blue  brougham,  with  that 
tremendous  stepping  horse,  waiting  at  the  door  of  the  club  ?  You'll 
know  it  again.  It  is  Sir  Hugh  Trumpington's ;  he  was  never  known 
to  walk  in  his  life;  never  appears  in  the  streets  on  foot — never:  and  if 
he  is  going  two  doors  off,  to  see  his  mother,  the  old  dowager  (to  whom 
I  shall  certainly  introduce  you,  for  she  receives  some  of  the  best  com- 
pany in  London),  gad,  sir,  he  mounts  his  horse  at  No.  23,  and  dismounts 
again  at  No.  25  A.  He  is  now  upstairs,  at  Bays's,  playing  picquet  with 
Count  Punter:  he  is  the  second-best  player  in  England — as  well  he 
maybe;  for  he  plays  everyday  of  his  life,  except  Sundays  (for  Sir 
Hugh  is  an  uncommonly  religious  man),  from  half-past  three  till  half- 
past  seven,  when  he  dresses  for  dinner. 

"A  very  pious  manner  of  spending  his  time,"  Pen  said,  laughing, 
and  thinking  that  his  uncle  was  falling  into  the  twaddling  state. 

"Gad,  sir,  that  is  not  the  question.  A  man  of  his  estate  may 
employ  his  time  as  he  chooses.  When  you  are  a  baronet,  a  county 
member,  with  ten  thousand  acres  of  the  best  land  in  Cheshire,  and 
such  a  place  as  Trumpington  (though  he  never  goes  there),  you  may 
do  as  you  like." 

"And  so  that  was  his  brougham,  sir,  was  it  ?"  the  nephew  said,  with 
almost  a  sneer. 

"His  brougham- -O   ay,  yes !— and  that  brings  me  back  to  my 


PENDENNIS.  35S 

point — revenons  a  nos  moutons.  Yes,  begad !  revenons  k  nos  mou- 
tons.  Well,  that  brougham  is  mine  if  I  choose,  between  four  and 
seven.  Just  as  much  mine  as  if  I  jobbed  it  from  Tilbury's,  begad,  for 
thirty  pound  a-month.  Sir  Hugh  is  the  best-natured  fellow  in  the 
world ;  and  if  it  hadn't  been  so  fine  an  afternoon  as  it  is,  you  and  I 
would  have  been  in  that  brougham  at  this  very  minute,  on  our  way  to 
Grosvenor  Place.  That  is  the  benefit  of  knowing  rich  men ; — I  dine 
for  nothing,  sir ; — I  go  into  the  country,  and  I'm  mounted  for  nothing. 
Other  fellows  keep  hounds  and  gamekeepers  for  me.  Sic  vos  non 
vodis,  as  we  used  to  say  at  Grey  Friars,  hey?  I'm  of  the  opinion 
of  my  old  friend  Leech,  of  the  Forty-fourth ;  and  a  devilish  good 
shrewd  fellow  he  was,  as  most  Scotchmen  are.  Gad,  sir.  Leech  used  to 
say,  '  He  was  so  poor  that  he  couldn't  afford  to  know  a  poor  man.'  " 

"  You  don't  act   up  to  your  principles.   Uncle,"  Pen  said,  good- 
naturedly. 

"  Up  to  my  principles  ;  how,  sir?"  the  Major  asked,  rather  testily. 
"  You  would  have  cut  me  in  Saint  James's  Street,  sir,"  Pen  said, 
"  were  your  practice  not  more  benevolent  than  your  theory ;  you  who 
live  with  dukes  and  magnates  of  the  land,  and  would  take  no  notice 
of  a  poor  devil  like  me."  By  which  speech  we  may  see  that  Mr.  Pen 
was  getting  on  in  the  world,  and  could  flatter  as  well  as  laugh  in  his 
sleeve. 

Major  Pendennis  was  appeased  instantly,  and  very  much  pleased. 
He  tapped  affectionately  his  nephew's  arm  on  which  he  was  leaning, 
and  said,  "  You,  sir,  you  are  my  flesh  and  blood !  Hang  it,  sir,  I've 
been  very  proud  of  you  and  very  fond  of  you,  but  for  your  confounded 
follies  and  extravagances — and  wild  oats,  sir,  which  I  hope  you've 
sown.  Yes,  begad !  I  hope  you've  sown  'em ;  I  hope  you've  sown 
'em,  begad!  My  object.  Arthur,  is  to  make  a  man  of  you — to  see 
you  well  placed  in  the  world,  as  becomes  one  of  your  name  and  my 
own,  sir.  You  have  got  yourself  a  little  reputation  by  your  literary 
talents,  which  I  am  very  far  from  undervaluing,  though  in  my  time, 
begad,  poetry  and  genius  and  that  sort  of  thing  were  devilish  disre- 
putable. There  was  poor  Byron,  for  instance,  who  ruined  himself,  and 
contracted  the  worst  habits  by  living  with  poets  and  newspaper- 
writers,  and  people  of  that  kind.  But  the  times  are  changed  now — 
there's  a  run  upon  literature— clever  fellows  get  into  the  best  houses  in 
town,  begad !  Tempera  tnutatiijir,  sir,  and,  by  Jove,  I  suppose  what- 
ever is  is  right,  as  Shakspeare  says." 

Pen  did  not  think  fit  to  tell  his  uncle  who  was  the  author  who 
had  made  use  of  that  remarkable  phrase,  and  here  descending  from 
the  Green  Park,  the  pair  made  their  way  into  Grosvenor  Place,  and 
to  the  door  of  the  mansion  occupied  there  by  Sir  Francis  and  Lady 
Clavering. 


356  PEyDENXIS. 

The  dining-room  sliutters  of  this  handsome  mansion  were  freshly 
gilded;  the  knockers  shone  gorgeous  upon  the  newly-painted  door; 
the  balcony  before  the  drawing-room  bloomed  with  a  portable  garden 
of  the  most  beautiful  plants,  and  with  flowers,  white,  and  pink,  and 
scarlet ;  the  windows  of  the  upper  room  (the  sacred  chamber  and 
dressing-room  of  my  lady,  doubtless),  and  even  a  pretty  little  case- 
ment of  the  third  story,  which  keen-sighted  Mr.  Pen  presumed  to 
belong  to  the  virgin  bedroom  of  Miss  Blanche  Amory,  were  similarly 
adorned  with  floral  ornaments,  and  the  whole  exterior  face  of  the  house 
presented  the  most  brilhant  aspect  which  fresh  new  paint,  shining 
plate  glass,  newly  cleaned  bricks,  and  spotless  mortar,  could  offer  to 
the  beholder. 

'•  How  Strong  must  have  rejoiced  in  organising  all  this  splendour," 
thought  Pen.  He  recognised  the  Chevalier's  genius  in  the  magnificence 
before  him. 

"  Lady  Clavering  is  going  out  for  her  drive,"  the  Major  said. 
"  We  shall  only  have  to  leave  our  pasteboards,  Arthur."  He  used 
the  word  "  pasteboards,"  having  heard  it  from  some  of  the  ingenious 
youth  of  the  nobility  about  town,  and  as  a  modern  phrase  suited  to 
Pen's  tender  years.  Indeed,  as  the  tv.-o  gentlemen  reached  the  door, 
a  landau  drove  up,  a  magnificent  yellow  carriage,  lined  with  brocade 
or  satin  of  a  faint  cream  colour,  drawn  by  wonderful  grey  horses,  with 
flaming  ribbons,  and  harness  blazing  all  over  with  crests :  no  less 
than  three  of  these  heraldic  emblems  surmounted  the  coats  of  arm.s 
on  the  panels,  and  these  shields  contained  a  prodigious  number  of 
quarterings,  .betokening  the  antiquity  and  splendour  of  the  houses  of 
Clavering  and  Snell.  A  coachman  in  a  tight  silver  wig  surmounted 
the  magnificent  hammercloth  (whereon  the  same  arms  were  worked 
in  bullion),  and  controlled  the  prancing  greys — a  young  man  still, 
but  of  a  solemn  countenance,  with  a  laced  waistcoat  and  buckles  in 
his  shoes — little  buckles,  unlike  those  which  John  and  Jeames,  the 
footmen,  wear,  and  which  we  know  are  large,  and  spread  elegantly 
over  the  foot. 

One  of  the  leaves  of  the  hall  door  was  opened,  and  John — one  of 
the  largest  of  his  race — was  leaning  against  the  door  pillar,  with  his 
ambrosial  hair  powdered,  his  legs  crossed ;  beautiful,  silk-stockinged  ; 
in  his  hand  his  cane,  gold-headed,  dolichoskion.  Jeames  was  invisible, 
but  near  at  hand,  waiting  in  the  hall,  with  the  gentleman  who  does  not 
wear  livery,  and  ready  to  fling  down  the  roll  of  hair-cloth  over  which 
her  ladyship  was  to  step  to  her  carriage.  These  things  and  men,  the 
which  to  tell  of  demands  time,  are  seen  in  the  glance  of  a  practised 
eye :  and  in  fact,  the  Major  and  Pen  had  scarcely  crossed  the  street, 
when  the  second  battant  of  the  door  flew  open ;  the  horse-hair  carpet 
tumbled  down  the   door-steps  to   those  of  the  carriage;   John  was 


PENDENNIS.  3'57 

opening  it  on  one  side  of  the  emblazoned  door,  and  Jeames  on  the 
other,  and  two  ladies,  attired  in  the  highest  style  of  fashion,  and 
accompanied  by  a  third,  who  carried  a  Blenheim  spaniel,  yelping  in  a 
light  blue  ribbon,  came  forth  to  ascend  the  carriage. 

Miss  Amory  was  the  first  to  enter,  which  she  did  with  aeriel  light- 
ness, and  took  the  place  which  she  liked  best.  Lady  Clavering  next 
followed,  but  her  ladyship  was  more  mature  of  age  and  heavy  of  foot, 
and  one  of  those  feet,  attired  in  a  green  satin  boot,  with  some  part  of 
a  stocking,  which  was  very  fine,  whatever  the  ancle  might  be  which  it 
encircled,  might  be  seen  swaying  on  the  carriage-step,  as  her  ladyship 
leaned  for  support  on  the  arm  of  the  unbending  Jeames,  by  the  en- 
raptured observer  of  female  beauty  who  happened  to  be  passing  at  the 
time  of  this  imposing  ceremonial. 

The  Pendennises  senior  and  junior  beheld  those  charms  as  they 
came  up  to  the  door — the  Major  looking  grave  and  courtly,  and  Pen 
somewhat  abashed  at  the  carriage  and  its  owners  ;  for  he  thought  of 
sundry  little  passages  at  Clavering,  which  made  his  heart  beat  rather 
quick. 

At  that  moment  Lady  Clavering,  looking  round,  saw  the  pair — she 
was  on  the  first  carriage-step,  and  would  have  been  in  the  vehicle  in 
another  second,  but  she  gave  a  start  backwards  (which  caused  some 
of  the  powder  to  fly  from  the  hair  of  ambrosial  Jeames),  and  crying 
out,  "Lor',  if  it  isn't  Arthur  Pendennis  and  the  old  Major!"  jumped 
back  to  terra  firma  directly,  and  holding  out  two  fat  hands,  encased  in 
tight  orange-coloured  gloves,  the  good-natured  woman  warmly  greeted 
the  Major  and  his  nephew. 

"  Come  in  both  of  you. — Why  haven't  you  been  before  ? — Get  out, 
Blanche,  and  come  and  see  your  old  friends. — O,  I'm  so  glad  to  see 
you.  We've  been  waitin'  and  waitin'  for  you  ever  so  long.  Come  in, 
luncheon  ain't  gone  down,"  cried  out  this  hospitable  lady,  squeezing 
Pen's  hand  in  both  hers  (she  had  dropped  the  Major's  after  a  brief 
wrench  of  recognition),  and  Blanche,  casting  up  her  eyes  towards  the 
chimneys,  descended  from  the  carriage  presently,  with  a  timid,  blush- 
ing, appealing  look,  and  gave  a  little  hand  to  Major  Pendennis. 

The  companion  with  the  spaniel  looked  about  irresolute,  and 
doubting  whether  she  should  not  take  Fido  his  airing;  but  she  too 
turned  right  about  face  and  entered  the  house,  after  Lady  Clavering, 
her  daughter,  and  the  two  gentlemen.  And  the  carriage,  with  the 
prancing  greys,  was  left  unoccupied,  save  by  the  coachman  in  the 
silver  wis. 


358  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

IN   WHICH   THE   SYLPH   REAPPEARS. 

BETTER  folks  than  Morgan,  the  valet,  were  not  so  well  instructed 
as  that  gentleman,  regarding  the  amount  of  Lady  Clavering's 
riches ;  and  the  legend  in  London,  upon  her  Ladyship's  arrival  in  the 
polite  metropolis,  was,  that  her  fortune  was  enormous.  Indigo 
factories,  opium  clippers,  banks  overflowing  with  rupees,  diamonds 
and  jewels  of  native  princes,  and  vast  sums  of  interest  paid  by  them 
for  loans  contracted  by  themselves  or  their  predecessors  to  Lady 
Clavering's  father,  were  mentioned  as  sources  of  her  wealth.  Her 
account  at  her  London  banker's  was  positively  known,  and  the  sum 
embraced  so  many  cyphers  as  to  create  as  many  O's  of  admiration  in 
the  wondering  hearer.  It  was  a  known  fact  that  an  envoy  from  an 
Indian  Prince,  a  Colonel  Altamont,  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow's  prime 
favourite,  an  extraordinary  man,  who  had,  it  was  said,  embraced  Maho- 
metanism,  and  undergone  a  thousand  wild  and  perilous  adventures, 
was  at  present  in  this  country,  trying  to  negotiate  with  the  Begum 
Clavering,  the  sale  of  the  Nawaub's  celebrated  nose-ring  diamond, 
"  the  light  of  the  Dewan." 

Under  the  title  of  the  Begum,  Lady  Clavering's  fame  began  to 
spread  in  London  before  she  herself  descended  upon  the  Capital,  and 
as  it  has  been  the  boast  of  Delolme,  and  Blackstone,  and  all  paneg)'- 
rists  of  the  British  Constitution,  that  we  admit  into  our  aristocracy 
merit  of  every  kind,  and  that  the  lowliest-born  man,  if  he  but  deserve  it, 
may  wear  the  robes  of  a  peer,  and  sit  alongside  of  a  Cavendish  or  a 
Stanley :  so  it  ought  to  be  the  boast  of  our  good  society,  that  haughty 
though  it  be,  naturally  jealous  of  its  privileges,  and  careful  who  shall 
be  admitted  into  its  circle,  yet,  if  an  individual  be  but  rich  enough,  all 
barriers  are  instantly  removed,  and  he  or  she  is  welcomed,  as  from  his 
•wealth  he  merits  to  be.  This  fact  shows  our  British  independence  and 
honest  feeling— our  higher  orders  are  not  such  mere  haughty  aris- 
tocrats as  the  ignorant  represent  them :  on  the  contrary,  if  a  man  have 
money  they  will  hold  out  their  hands  to  him,  eat  his  dinners,  dance  at 
bis  balls,  marry  his  daughters,  or  give  their  own  lovely  girls  to  his 
sons,  as  affably  as  your  commonest  roturier  would  do. 

As  he  had  superintended  the  arrangements  of  the  country  mansion, 


PENDENNIS.  359 

our  friend,  the  Chevalier  Strong,  gave  the  benefit  of  his  taste  and 
advice  to  the  fashionable  London  upholsterers,  who  prepared  the  town 
house  for  the  reception  of  the  Clavering  family.  In  the  decoration  of 
this  elegant  abode,  honest  Strong's  soul  rejoiced  as  much  as  if  he  had 
been  himself  its  proprietor.  He  hung  and  re-hung  the  pictures,  he 
studied  the  positions  of  sofas,  he  had  interviews  with  wine  merchants 
and  purveyors  who  were  to  supply  the  new  establishment ;  and  at  the 
same  time  the  Baronet's  factotum  and  confidential  friend  took  the 
opportunity  of  furnishing  his  own  chambers,  and  stocking  his  snug 
little  cellar :  his  friends  complimented  him  upon  the  neatness  of  the 
former;  and  the  select  guests  who  came  in  to  share  Strong's  cutlet 
now  found  a  bottle  of  excellent  claret  to  accompany  the  meal.  The 
Chevalier  was  now,  as  he  said,  "  in  clover:  "  he  had  a  very  comfortable 
set  of  rooms  in  Shepherd's  Inn.  He  was  waited  on  by  a  former 
Spanish  Legionary  and  comrade  of  his  whom  he  had  left  at  a  breach 
of  a  Spanish  fort,  and  found  at  a  crossing  in  Tottenham-court  Road, 
and  whom  he  had  elevated  to  the  rank  of  body-servant  to  himself 
and  to  the  chum  who,  at  present,  shared  his  lodgings.  This  was  no 
other  than  the  favourite  of  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow,  the  valiant 
Colonel  Altamont. 

No  man  was  less  curious,  or  at  any  rate,  more  discreet,  than  Ned 
Strong,  and  he  did  not  care  to  inquire  into  the  mysterious  connection 
which,  very  soon  after  their  first  meeting  at  Baymouth,  was  established 
between  Sir  Francis  Clavering  and  the  envoy  of  the  Nawaub.  The 
latter  knew  some  secret  regarding  the  former,  which  put  Clavering 
into  his  power,  somehow ;  and  Strong,  who  knew  that  his  patron's 
early  life  had  been  rather  irregular,  and  that  his  career  with  his  regi- 
ment in  India  had  not  been  brilliant,  supposed  that  the  Colonel,  who 
swore  he  knew  Clavering  well  at  Calcutta,  had  some  hold  upon  Sir 
Francis,  to  which  the  latter  was  forced  to  yield.  In  truth,  Strong  had 
long  understood  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  character,  as  that  of  a  man 
utterly  weak  in  purpose,  in  principle,  and  intellect,  a  moral  and  physical 
trifler  and  poltroon. 

With  poor  Clavering,  his  Excellency  had  had  one  or  two  interviews 
after  their  Baymouth  meeting,  the  nature  of  which  conversations  the 
Baronet  did  not  confide  to  Strong:  although  he  sent  letters  to  Alta- 
mont by  that  gentleman,  who  was  his  ambassador  in  all  sorts  of  affairs. 
On  one  of  these  occasions  the  Nawaub's  envoy  must  have  been  in  an 
exceeding  ill-humour  j  for  he  crushed  Clavering's  letter  in  his  hand, 
and  said  with  his  own  particular  manner  and  emphasis  : — 

"  A  hundred  be  hanged.  I'll  have  no  more  letters  nor  no  more 
shilly-shally.  Tell  Clavering  I'll  have  a  thousand,  or  by  Jove  I'll  split, 
and  burst  him  all  to  atoms.  Let  him  give  me  a  thousand  and  I'll  go 
abroad,  and  I  give  you  my  honour  as  a  gentleman,  I'll  not  ask  him  for 


36o  rEWE.YNIS. 

no  more  for  a  year.  Give  him  that  message  from  me,  Strong,  my  boy ; 
and  tell  him  if  the  money  ain't  here  next  Friday  at  12  o'clock,  as  sure 
as  my  name's  what  it  is,  I'll  have  a  paragraph  in  the  newspaper  on 
Saturday,  and  next  week  I'll  blow  up  the  whole  concern." 

Strong  carried  back  these  words  to  his  principal,  on  whom  their 
effect  was  such  that  actually  on  the  day  and  hour  appointed,  the 
Chevalier  made  his  appearance  once  more  at  Altamont's  hotel  at 
Bajmouth,  with  the  sum  of  money  required.  Altamont  was  a  gentle- 
man, he  said,  and  behaved  as  such;  he  paid  his  bill  at  the  Inn,  and 
the  Baymouth  paper  announced  his  departure  on  a  foreign  tour. 
Strong  saw  him  embark  at  Dover.  "  It  must  be  forgery  at  the  very 
least,'"'  he  thought,  "  that  has  put  Clavering  into  this  fellow's  power, 
and  the  Colonel  has  got  the  bill." 

Before  the  year  was  out,  however,  this  happy  country  saw  the 
Colonel  once  more  upon  its  shores.  A  confounded  run  on  the  red  had 
finished  him,  he  said,  at  Baden  Baden:  no  gentleman  could  stand 
against  a  colour  coming  up  fourteen  times.  He  had  been  obliged  to 
draw  upon  Sir  Francis  Clavering  for  means  of  returning  home :  and 
Clavering,  though  pressed  for  money  (for  he  had  election  expenses,  had 
set  up  his  establishment  in  the  country,  and  was  engaged  in  furnishing 
his  London  house),  yet  found  means  to  accept  Colonel  Altamont's  bill, 
though  evidently  very  much  against  his  will;  for  in  Strong's  hearing. 
Sir  Francis  wished  to  heaven,  with  many  curses,  that  the  Colonel 
could  have  been  locked  up  in  a  debtor's  gaol  in  Germany  for  life,  so 
that  he  might  never  be  troubled  again. 

These  sums  for  the  Colonel  Sir  Francis  was  obliged  to  raise  without 
the  knowledge  of  his  wife ;  for  though  perfectly  liberal,  nay,  sumptuous 
in  her  expenditure,  the  good  lady  had  inherited  a  tolerable  aptitude 
for  business  along  with  the  large  fortune  of  her  father,  Snell,  and  gave 
to  her  husband  only  such  a  handsome  allowance  as  she  thought 
befitted  a  gentleman  of  his  rank.  Now  and  again  she  would  give  him 
a  present,  or  pay  an  outstanding  gambling  debt ;  but  she  always 
exacted  a  pretty  accurate  account  of  the  monies  so  required ;  and  re- 
specting the  subsidies  to  the  Colonel,  Clavering  fairly  told  Strong 
that  he  couldn't  speak  to  his  wife. 

Part  of  Mr,  Strong's  business  in  life  was  to  procure  this  money 
and  other  sums,  for  his  patron.  And  in  the  Chevalier's  apartments, 
in  Shepherd's  Inn,  many  negotiations  took  place  between  gentlemen 
of  the  moneyed  world  and  Sir  Francis  Clavering;  and  many  valuable 
bank-notes  and  pieces  of  stamped  paper  were  passed  between  them. 
When  a  man  has  been  in  the  habit  of  getting  in  debt  from  his  early 
youth,  and  of  exchanging  his  promises  to  pay  at  twelve  months  against 
present  sums  of  money,  it  would  seem  as  if  no  piece  of  good  fortune 
ever   permanently   benefited  him:  a   little  while  after  the  advent  of 


PENDEANIS.  361 

prosperity,  the  money-lender  is  pretty  certain  to  be  in  the  house  again, 
and  the  bills  with  the  old  signature  in  the  market.  Clavering  found 
it  more  convenient  to  see  these  gentry  at  Strong's  lodgings  than  at 
his  own ;  and  such  was  the  Chevalier's  friendship  for  the  Baronet,  that 
although  he  did  not  possess  a  shilling  of  his  own,  his  name  might  be 
seen  as  the  drawer  of  almost  all  the  bills  of  exchange  which  Sir  Francis 
Clavering  accepted.  Having  drawn  Clavering's  bills,  he  got  them 
discounted  "  in  the  City."  When  they  became  due  he  parleyed  with 
the  bill-holders,  and  gave  them  instalments  of  their  debt,  or  got  time 
in  exchange  for  fresh  acceptances.  Regularly  or  irregularly,  gentlemen 
must  live  somehow:  and  as  we  read  how,  the  other  day,  at  Comorn, 
the  troops  forming  that  garrison  were  gay  and  lively,  acted  plays, 
danced  at  balls,  and  consumed  their  rations  ;  though  menaced  with 
an  assault  from  the  eneniy  without  the  walls,  and  with  a  gallows  if 
the  Austrians  were  successful, — so  there  are  hundreds  of  gallant 
spirits  in  this  town,  walking  about  in  good  spirits,  dining  every  day 
in  tolerable  gaiety  and  plenty,  and  going  to  sleep  comfortably;  with  a 
bailiff  always  more  or  less  near,  and  a  rope  of  debt  round  their  necks 
—  the  which  trifling  inconveniences,  Ned  Strong,  the  old  soldier,  bore 
very  easily. 

But  we  shall  have  another  opportunity  of.  making  acquaintance 
with  these  and  some  other  interesting  inhabitants  of  Shepherd's  Inn, 
and  in  the  meanwhile  are  keeping  Lady  Clavering  and  her  friends  too 
long  waiting  on  the  door  steps  of  Grosvenor  Place. 

First  they  went  into  the  gorgeous  dining-room,  fitted  up,  Lady 
Clavering  couldn't  for  goodness  gracious  tell  why,  in  the  middle-aged 
style,  "  unless,"  said  her  good-natured  ladyship,  laughing,  "  because 
me  and  Clavering  are  middle-aged  people ; " — and  here  they  were 
offered  the  copious  remains  of  the  luncheon  of  which  Lady  Clavering 
and  Blanche  had  just  partaken.  When  nobody  was  near,  our  little 
Sylphide,  who  scarcely  ate  at  dinner  more  than  the  six  grains  of  rice 
of  Amina,  the  friend  of  the  Ghouls  in  the  Arabian  Nights,  was  most 
active  with  her  knife  and  fork,  and  consumed  a  very  substantial 
portion  of  mutton  cutlets :  in  which  piece  of  hypocrisy  it  is  believed 
she  resembled  other  young  ladies  of  fashion.  Pen  and  his  uncle 
declined  the  refection,  but  they  admired  the  dining-room  with  fitting 
compliments,  and  pronounced  it  "  very  chaste,"  that  being  the  proper 
phrase.  There  were,  indeed,  high-backed  Dutch  chairs  of  the  seven- 
teenth century;  there  was  a  sculptured  carved  buffet  of  the  sixteenth; 
there  was  a  sideboard  robbed  out  of  the  carved  work  of  a  church  in 
the  Low  Countries,  and  a  large  brass  cathedral  lamp  over  the  round 
oak  table ;  there  were  old  family  portraits  from  Wardour  Street,  and 
tapestry  from  France,  bits  of  armour,  double-handed  swords  and 
battle-axes  made  of  carion-pierre,  looking-glasses,  statuettes  of  saints, 


362  PENDENNIS. 

and  Dresden  china— nothing,  in  a  word,  could  be  chaster.  Behind 
the  dining-room  was  the  library,  fitted  with  busts  and  books  all  of  a 
size,  and  wonderful  easy  chairs,  and  solemn  bronzes  in  the  severe 
classic  style.  Here  it  was  that,  guarded  by  double  doors,  Sir  Francis 
smoked  cigars,  and  read  "  Bell's  Life  in  London,"  and  went  to  sleep 
after  dinner,  when  he  was  not  smoking  over  the  billiard-table  at  his 
clubs,  or  punting  at  the  gambling-houses  in  Saint  James's. 

But  what  could  equal  the  chaste  splendour  of  the  drawing-room  ? 
— the  carpets  were  so  magnificently  fluffy  that  your  foot  made  no 
more  noise  on  them  than  your  shadow :  on  their  white  ground  bloomed 
roses  and  tulips  as  big  as  warming-pans :  about  the  room  were  high 
chairs  and  low  chairs,  bandy-legged  chairs,  chairs  so  attenuated  that 
it  was  a  wonder  any  but  a  sylph  could  sit;  upon  them,  marqueterie- 
tables  covered  with  marvellous  gimcracks,  china  ornaments  of  all  ages 
and  countries,  bronzes,  gilt  daggers.  Books  of  Beauty,  yataghans, 
Turkish  papooshes  and  boxes  of  Parisian  bonbons.  Wherever  you 
sate  down  there  were  Dresden  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  'Conve- 
nient at  your  elbow;  there  were,  moreover,  light  blue  poodles  and 
ducks  and  cocks  and  hens  in  porcelain ;  there  were  nymphs  by 
Boucher,  and  shepherdesses  by  Greuze,  very  chaste  indeed;  there 
were  muslin  curtains  and  brocade  curtains,  gilt  cages  with  parroquets 
and  love  birds,  two  squealing  cockatoos,  each  out-squealing  and  out- 
chattering  the  other;  a  clock  singing  tunes  on  a  console-table,  and 
another  booming  the  hours  like  Great  Tom,  on  the  mantel-piece — 
there  was,  in  a  word,  everything  that  comfort  could  desire,  and  the 
most  elegant  taste  devise.  A  London  drawing-room,  fitted  up  without 
regard  to  expense,  is  surely  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  curious  sights 
of  the  present  day.  The  Romans  of  the  Lower  Empire,  the  dear 
Marchionesses  and  Countesses  of  Louis  XV.,  could  scarcely  have  had 
a  finer  taste  than  our  modern  folks  exhibit;  and  everybody  who  saw 
Lady  Clavering's  reception-rooms,  was  forced  to  confess  that  they 
were  most  elegant;  and  that  the  prettiest  rooms  in  London — Lady 
Harley  Ouin's,  Lady  Hanway  Wardour's,  or  Mrs.  Hodge-Podgson's 
own,  the  great  Railroad  Croesus'  wife,  were  not  fitted  up  with  a  more 
consummate  "  chastity." 

Poor  Lady  Clavering,  meanwhile,  knew  little  regarding  these 
things,  and  had  a  sad  want  of  respect  for  the  splendours  around  her. 
"  I  only  know  they  cost  a  precious  deal  of  money.  Major,"  she  said  to 
her  guest,  "  and  that  I  don't  advise  you  to  try  one  of  them  gossamer 
gilt  chairs :  /  came  down  on  one  the  night  we  gave  our  second  dinner 
party.  Why  didn't  you  come  and  see  us  before }  We'd  have  asked 
you  to  it." 

"  You  would  have  liked  to  see  ]\Limma  break  a  chair,  wouldn't 
you,  Mr.  Pendennis  ?"  dear  Blanche  said  with  a  sneer.     She  was  angrv 


PENDENNIS.  363 

because  Pen  was  talking  and  laughing  with  Mamma,  because  Mamma 
had  made  a  number  of  blunders  in  describing  the  house — for  a 
hundred  other  good  reasons. 

"  I  should  like  to  have  been  by  to  give  Lady  Clavering  my  arm  if 
she  had  need  of  it,"  Pen  answered,  with  a  bow  and  a  blush. 

"  Quel  preux  Chevalier  I "  cried  the  Sylphide,  tossing  up  her  little 
head. 

"  I  have  a  fellow-feeling  with  those  who  fall,  remember,"  Pen  said. 
"  I  suffered  myself  very  much  from  doing  so  once." 

"And  you  went  home  to  Laura  to  console  you,"  said  Miss  Amory. 
Pen  winced.  He  did  not  like  the  remembrance  of  the  consolation 
which  Laura  had  given  to  him,  nor  was  he  very  well  pleased  to  find 
that  his  rebuff  in  that  quarter  was  known  to  the  world :  so  as  he  had 
nothing  to  say  in  reply,  he  began  to  be  immensely  interested  in  the 
furniture  round  about  him,  and  to  praise  Lady  Clavering's  taste  with 
all  his  might. 

"  Me,  don't  praise  me,"  said  honest  Lady  Clavering,  "  it's  all  the 
upholsterer's  doings  and  Captain  Strong's;  they  did  it  all  while  we  was 
at  the  Park — and — and — Lady  Rockminster  has  been  here  and  says 
the  salongs  are  very  well,"  said  Lady  Clavering,  with  an  air  and  tone 
of  great  deference. 

"  My  cousin  Laura  has  been  staying  with  her,"  Pen  said. 

"  It's  not  the  dowager:  it  is  the  Lady  Rockminster." 

"  Indeed!"  cried  Major  Pendennis,  when  he  heard  this  great  name 
of  fashion.  "  If  you  have  her  ladyship's  approval,  Lady  Clavering, 
you  cannot  be  far  wrong.  No,  no,  you  cannot  be  far  wrong.  Lady 
Rockminster,  I  should  say,  Arthur,  is  the  very  centre  of  the  circle  of 
fashion  and  taste.  The  rooms  are  beautiful  indeed  ! "  and  the  Major's 
voice  hushed  as  he  spoke  of  this  great  lady,  and  he  looked  round  and 
surveyed  the  apartments  awfully  and  respectfully,  as  if  he  had  been  at 
church. 

"  Yes,  Lady  Rockminster  has  took  us  up,"  said  Lady  Clavering. 

"  Taken  us  up,  Mamma,"  cried  Blanche,  in  a  shrill  voice. 

"  Well,  taken  us  up,  then,"  said  my  lady,  "  it's  very  kind  of  her, 
and  I  dare  say  we  shall  like  it  when  we  git  used  to  it,  only  at  first 
one  don't  fancy  being  took — well,  taken  up,  at  all.  She  is  going  to 
give  our  balls  for  us ;  and  wants  to  invite  all  our  diners.  But  I 
won't  stand  that.  I  will  have  my  old  friends,  and  I  won't  let  her 
send  all  the  cards  out,  and  sit  mum  at  the  head  of  my  own  table. 
You  must  come  to  me,  Arthur  and  Major — come,  let  me  see,  on  the 
14th. — It  ain't  one  of  our  grand  dinners,  Blanche,"  she  said,  looking 
round  at  her  daughter,  who  bit  her  lips  and  frowned  very  savagely  for 
a  sylphide. 

The  Major,  with  a  smile  and  a  bow,  said  he  would  much  rather 


364  PEi\'DENNIS. 

come  to  a  quiet  meeting  than  to  a  grand  dinner.     He  had  had  enough 
of  those  large  entertainments,  and  preferred  the  simphcity  of  the  home 

circle. 

"  I  always  think  a  dinner's  the  best  the  second  day,"  said  Lady 
Clavering,  thinking  to  mend  her  first  speech.  "  On  the  14th  we'll  be 
quite  a  snug  little  party;"  at  which  second  blunder,  IVIiss  Blanche 
clasped  her  hands  in  despair,  and  said,  "  O,  Mamma,  vous  etes 
incorrigibleP  Major  Pendennis  vowed  that  he  liked  snug  dinners  of 
all  things  in  the  world,  and  confounded  her  ladyship's  impudence  for 
daring  to  ask  such  a  man  as  ///;;/  to  a  second  day's  dinner.  But  he 
was  a  man  of  an  economical  turn  of  mind,  and  bethinking  himself 
that  he  could  throw  over  these  people  if  anything  better  should  offer, 
he  accepted  with  the  blandest  air.  As  for  Pen,  he  was  not  a  diner- 
out  of  thirty  years'  standing  as  yet,  and  the  idea  of  a  fine  feast  in  a  fine 
house  was  still  perfectly  welcome  to  him. 

"  What  was  that  pretty  little  quarrel  which  engaged  itself  between 
your  worship  and  Miss  Amory?"  the  Major  asked  of  Pen,  as  they 
walked  away  together.  "  I  thought  you  used  to  be  an  juieux  in  that 
quarter." 

"  Used  to  be,"  answered  Pen,  with  a  dandified  air  ;  "  is  a  vague 
phrase  regarding  a  woman.  Was  and  is  are  two  very  different  terms, 
sir,  as  regards  women's  hearts  especially." 

"  Egad,  they  change  as  we  do,"  cried  the  elder.  "  Wlien  we  took 
the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  I  recollect  there  was  a  lady  who  talked  of 
poisoning  herself  for  your  humble  servant ;  and,  begad,  in  three  months, 
she  ran  away  from  her  husband  with  somebody  else.  Don't  get  your- 
self entangled  with  that  Miss  Amory.  She  is  forward,  affected,  and 
underbred ;  and  her  character  is  somewhat — never  mind  what.  But 
don't  think  of  her;  ten  thousand  pound  won't  do  for  you.  What,  my 
good  fellow,  is  ten  thousand  pound  ?  I  would  scarcely  pay  that  girl's 
milliner's  bill  with  the  interest  of  the  money." 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  connoisseur  in  milliner}-.  Uncle,"  Pen  said, 

"  I  was,  sir,  I  was,"  replied  the  senior ;  "  and  the  old  war-horse, 
you  know,  never  hears  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  but  he  begins  to  he, 
he! — you  understand," — and  he  gave  a  killing  though  somewhat 
superannuated  leer  and  bow  to  a  carriage  that  passed  them  and 
entered  the  Park. 

"  Lady  Catherine  Martingale's  carriage,"  he  said,  "  mons'ous  fine 
girls  the  daughters,  though,  gad,  I  remember  their  mother  a  thousand 
times  handsomer.  No,  Arthur,  my  dear  fellow,  with  your  person  and 
expectations,  you  ought  to  make  a  good  coup  in  marriage  some  day 
or  other;  and  though  I  wouldn't  have  this  repeated  at  Fairoaks,  you 
rogue,  ha!  ha!  a  reputation  for  a  little  wickedness,  and  for  being  an 
homme  dangereux,  don't  hurt  a  young  fellow  with  the  women.     They 


PENDENN/S.  365 

like  it,  sir — they  hate  a  milksop  .  .  .  young  men  must  be  young  men, 
you  know.  But  for  marriage,"  continued  the  veteran  moralist,  "that 
is  a  very  different  matter.  Marry  a  woman  with  money.  I've  told 
you  before  it  is  as  easy  to  get  a  rich  wife  as  a  poor  one ;  and  a  doosed 
deal  more  comfortable  to  sit  down  to  a  well-cooked  dinner,  with  your 
little  entrees  nicely  served,  than  to  have  nothing  but  a  damned  cold 
leg  of  mutton  between  you  and  your  wife.  We  shall  have  a  good 
dinner  on  the  14th,  when  we  dine  with  Sir  Francis  Clavering:  stick  to 
that,  my  boy,  in  your  relations  with  the  family.  Cultivate  'em,  but 
keep  'em  for  dining.  No  more  of  your  youthful  follies  and  nonsense 
about  love  in  a  cottage." 

"  It  must  be  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house,  a  cottage  of 
gentility,  sir,"  said  Pen,  quoting  the  hackneyed  ballad  of  the  Devil's 
Walk:  but  his  Uncle  did  not  know  that  poem  (though,  perhaps,  he 
might  be  leading  Pen  upon  the  very  promenade  in  question),  and  went 
on  with  his  philosophical  remarks,  very  much  pleased  with  the  aptness 
of  the  pupil  to  whom  he  addressed  them.  Indeed  Arthur  Pendennis 
was  a  clever  fellow,  who  took  his  colour  very  readily  from  his  neigh- 
bour and  found  the  adaptation  only  too  easy. 

W^arrington,  the  grumbler,  growled  out  that  Pen  was  becoming 
such  a  puppy  that  soon  there  would  be  no  bearing  him.  But  the 
truth  is,  the  young  man's  success  and  dashing  manners  pleased  his 
elder  companion.  He  Hked  to  see  Pen  gay  and  spirited,  and  brimfuU 
of  health,  and  life,  and  hope ;  as  a  man  who  has  long  since  left  off 
being  amused  with  clown  and  harlequin,  still  gets  a  pleasure  in  watch- 
ing a  child  at  a  pantomime.  Mr.  Pen's  former  sulkiness  disappeared 
with  his  better  fortune:  and  he  bloomed  as  the  sun  b^gan  to  shine 
upon  him. 


266  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

IN  WHICH   COLONEL  ALTAMONT  APPEARS   AND   DISAPPEARS. 

ON  the  day  appointed,  Major  Pendennis,  who  had  formed  no 
better  engagement,  and  Arthur,  who  desired  none,  airived 
together  to  dine  with  Sir  Francis  Clavering.  The  only  tenants  of  the 
drawing-room  when  Pen  and  his  Uncle  reached  it,  were  Sir  Francis 
and  his  wife,  and  our  friend  Captain  Strong,  whom  Arthur  was  very 
glad  to  see,  though  the  Major  looked  very  sulkily  at  Strong,  being  by 
no  means  well  pleased  to  sit  down  to  dinner  with  Clavering's  d — 
house-steward,  as  he  irreverently  called  Strong.  But  ]\Ir.  Welbore 
Welbore,  Clavering's  country  neighbour  and  brother  member  of  Par- 
liament, speedily  arriving,  Pendennis  the  elder  was  somewhat  appeased, 
for  Welbore,  though  perfectly  dull,  and  taking  no  more  part  in  the 
conversation  at  dinner  than  the  footman  behind  his  chair,  was  a 
respectable  country  gentleman  of  ancient  family  and  seven  thousand 
a  year;  and  the  Major  felt  always  at  ease  in  such  society.  To  these 
were  added  other  persons  of  note :  the  Dowager  Lady  Rockminster, 
who  had  her  reasons  for  being  well  with  the  Clavering  family,  and  the 
Lady  Agnes, Foker,  with  her  son  Mr.  Harry,  our  old  acquaintance. 
Mr.  Pynsent  could  not  come,  his  parliamentary  duties  keeping  him  at 
the  House,  duties  which  sate  upon  the  two  other  senators  very  lightly. 
Aliss  Blanche  Amory  was  the  last  of  the  company  who  made  her 
appearance.  She  was  dressed  in  a  killing  white  silk  dress,  which  dis- 
played her  pearly  shoulders  to  the  utmost  advantage.  Foker  whispered 
to  Pen,  who  regarded  her  with  eyes  of  evident  admiration,  that  he 
considered  her  "  a  stunner."  She  chose  to  be  very  gracious  to  Arthur 
upon  this  day,  and  held  out  her  hand  most  cordially,  and  talked  about 
dear  Fairoaks,  and  asked  for  dear  Laura  and  his  mother,  and  said 
she  was  longing  to  go  back  to  the  countrj-,  and  in  fact  was  entirely 
simple,  affectionate,  and  artless. 

Harry  Foker  thought  he  had  never  seen  anybody  so  amiable  and 
delightful.  Not  accustomed  much  to  the  society  of  ladies,  and  ordi- 
narily being  dumb  in  their  presence,  he  found  that  he  could  speak 
before  Miss  Amory,  and  became  uncommonly  lively  and  talkative, 
even  before  the  dinner  was  announced  and  the  party  descended  to 
the  lower  rooms.     He  would  have  longed  to  give  his  arm  to  the  fair 


PENDENNIS.  367 

Blanche,  and  conduct  her  down  the  broad  carpeted  stair  ;  but  she 
fell  to  the  lot  of  Pen  upon  this  occasion,  Mr.  Foker  being  appointed 
to  escort  Mrs.  Welbore  Welbore,  in  consequence  of  his  superior  rank 
as  an  earl's  grandson. 

But  though  he  was  separated  from  the  object  of  his  desire  during 
the  passage  down  stairs,  the  delighted  Foker  found  himself  by  Miss 
Amory's  side  at  the  dinner-table,  and  flattered  himself  that  he  had 
manoeuvred  very  well  in  securing  that  happy  place.  It  may  be  that 
the  move  was  not  his,  but  that  it  was  made  by  another  person. 
Blanche  had  thus  the  two  young  men,  one  on  each  side  of  her,  and 
each  tried  to  render  himself  gallant  and  agreeable. 

Foker's  mamma,  from  her  place,  surveying  her  darling  boy,  was 
surprised  at  his  vivacity.  Harry  talked  constantly  to  his  fair  neigh- 
bour about  the  topics  of  the  day. 

"Seen  Taglioni  in  the  Sylphide,  Miss  Amory.?  Bring  me  that 
souprame  of  Volile  again,  if  you  please  (this  was  addressed  to  the 
attendant  near  him),  very  good  :  can't  think  where  the  souprames 
come  from  ;  what  becomes  of  the  legs  of  the  fowls,  I  wonder  ?  She's 
clipping  in  the  Sylphide,  ain't  she .'' "  and  he  began  very  kindly  to 
hum  the  pretty  air  which  pervades  that  prettiest  of  all  ballets,  now 
faded  into  the  past  with  that  most  beautiful  and  gracious  of  all  dancers. 
Will  the  young  folks  ever  see  anything  so  charming,  anything  so 
classic,  anything  like  Taglioni  1 

"  Miss  Amory  is  a  sylph  herself,"  said  Mr.  Pen. 

"  What  a  delightful  tenor  voice  you  have,  Mr.  Foker,''  said  the 
young  lady.  "  I  am  sure  you  have  been  well  taught.  1  sing  a  little 
myself.     I  should  like  to  sing  with  you." 

Pen  remembered  that  words  very  similar  had  been  addressed  to 
himself  by  the  young  lady,  and  that  she  had  liked  to  sing  with  him 
in  former  days.  And  sneering  within  himself,  he  wondered  with  how 
many  other  gentlemen  she  had  sung  duets  since  his  time  ?  But  he 
did  not  think  fit  to  put  this  awkward  question  aloud  :  and  only  said, 
with  the  very  tenderest  air  which  he  could  assume,  "  I  should  like  to 
hear  you  sing  again,  Miss  Blanche.  I  never  heard  a  voice  1  liked  so 
well  as  yours,  I  think." 

"  I  thought  you  liked  Laura's,"  said  Miss  Blanche. 

"  Laura's  is  a  contralto  :  and  that  voice  is  very  often  out,  you 
know,"  Pen  said,  bitterly.  "  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  of  music,  in 
London,"  he  continued.  "  I  am  tired  of  those  professional  people — 
they  sing  too  loud— or  I  have  grown  too  old  or  too  blase.  One  grows 
old  very  soon,  in  London,  Miss  Amory.  And  like  all  old  fellows,  I 
only  care  for  the  songs  I  heard  in  my  youth." 

"  I  like  English  music  best.  I  don't  care  for  foreign  songs  much. 
Get  me  some  saddle  of  mutton,"  said  Mr.  Foker. 


368  PENDEXNIS. 

"  I  adore  English  ballads  of  all  things,"  said  Miss  Amor)'. 

"  Sing  me  one  of  the  old  songs  after  dinner,  will  you  ? "  said  Pen, 
with  an  imploring  voice, 

"Shall  I  sing  you  an  English  song,  after  dinner?"  asked  the 
Sylphide,  turning  to  Mr.  Foker.  "  I  will,  if  you  will  promise  to  come 
up  soon  :  "  and  she  gave  him  a  perfect  broadside  of  her  eyes. 

"  ni  come  up  after  dinner,  fast  enough  ?  "  he  said  simply.  "  I 
don't  care  about  much  wine  afterwards — I  take  my  whack  at  dinner 
— I  mean  my  share,  you  know  ;  and  when  I  have  had  as  much  as  I 
want,  I  toddle  up  to  tea,  I'm  a  domestic  character.  Miss  Amory — 
my  habits  are  simple — and  when  I'm  pleased  I'm  generally  in  a  good 
humour,  ain't  I,  Pen  .^ — that  jelly,  if  you  please — not  that  one,  the 
other  with  the  cherries  inside.  How  the  doose  do  they  get  those 
cherries  inside  the  jellies?"  In  this  way  the  artless  youth  prattled 
on  :  and  Miss  Amor)'  listened  to  him  with  inexhaustible  good 
humour.  When  the  ladies  took  their  departure  for  the  upper  regions, 
Blanche  made  the  two  young  men  promise  faithfully  to  quit  the  table 
soon,  and  departed  with  kind  glances  to  each.  She  dropped  her 
gloves  on  Pokers  side  of  the  table,  and  her  handkerchief  on  Pen's. 
Each  had  some  little  attention  paid  to  him  ;  her  politeness  to 
Mr.  Foker  was  perhaps  a  little  more  encouraging  than  her  kindness 
to  Arthur :  but  the  benevolent  little  creature  did  her  best  to  make 
both  the  gentlemen  happy.  Foker  caught  her  last  glance  as  she 
rushed  out  of  the  door ;  that  bright  look  passed  over  Mr.  Strong's 
broad  white  waistcoat,  and  shot  straight  at  Harry  Poker's.  The  door 
closed  on  the  charmer  :  he  sate  down  with  a  sigh,  and  swallowed  a 
bumper  of  claret. 

As  the  dinner  at  which  Pen  and  his  uncle  took  their  places  was 
not  one  of  our  grand  parties,  it  had  been  served  at  a  considerably 
earlier  hour  than  those  ceremonial  banquets  of  the  London  season, 
which  custom  has  ordained  shall  scarcely  take  place  before  nine 
o'clock ;  and  the  company  being  small,  and  Miss  Blanche,  anxious 
to  betake  herself  to  her  piano  in  the  drawing-room,  giving  constant 
hints  to  her  mother  to  retreat, — Lady  Clavering  made  that  signal  \cry 
speedily,  so  that  it  was  quite  daylight  yet  when  the  ladies  reached  the 
upper  apartments,  from  the  flower-embroidered  balconies  of  which 
they  could  command  a  view  of  the  two  Parks,  of  the  poor  couples  and 
children  still  sauntering  in  the  one,  and  of  the  equipages  of  ladies  and 
the  horses  of  dandies  passing  through  the  arch  of  the  other.  The  sun, 
in  a  word,  had  not  set  behind  the  elms  of  Kensington  Gardens,  and 
was  still  gilding  the  statue  erected  by  the  ladies  of  England  in  honour 
of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  when  Lady  Clavering  and  her 
female  friends  left  the  gentlemen  drinking  wine. 


PEA'DENNIS.  369 

The  windows  of  the  dining-room  were  opened  to  let  in  the  frrsh 
air,  and  afforded  to  the  passers-by  in  the  street  a  pleasant,  or,  perhaps, 
tantahsing  view  of  six  gentlemen  in  white  waistcoats,  with  a  quantity 
of  decanters  and  a  variety  of  fruits  before  them — httle  boys,  as  they 
passed  and  jumped  up  at  the  area  railings,  and  took  a  peep,  said  to 
one  another,  "  Mi  hi,  Jim,  shouldn't  you  like  to  be  there,  and  have  a 
cut  of  that  there  pine-apple  ? " — the  horses  and  carriages  of  the  nobility 
and  gentry  passed  by,  conveying  them  to  Belgravian  toilets;  the 
policeman,  with  clamping  feet,  patrolled  up  and  down  before  the 
mansion :  the  shades  of  evening  began  to  fall :  the  gasman  came 
and  lighted  the  lamps  before  Sir  Francis's  door:  the  butler  entered 
the  dining-room,  and  illuminated  the  antique  gothic  chandelier  over 
the  antique  carved  oak  dining-table :  so  that  from  outside  the  house 
you  looked  inwards  upon  a  night  scene  of  feasting  and  wax  candles ; 
and  from  within  you  beheld  a  vision  of  a  calm  summer  evening,  and 
the  wall  of  Saint  James's  Park,  and  the  sky  above,  in  which  a  star 
or  two  was  just  beginning  to  twinkle. 

Jeames,  with  folded  legs,  leaning  against  the  door-pillar  of  his 
master's  abode,  looked  forth  musingly  upon  the  latter  tranquil  sight  : 
whilst  a  spectator,  clinging  to  the  railings,  examined  the  former  scene. 
Policeman  X,  passing,  gave  his  attention  to  neither,  but  fixed  it  upon 
the  individual  holding  by  the  railings,  and  gazing  into  Sir  Francis 
Clavering's  dining-room,  where  Strong  was  laughing  and  talking  away, 
making  the  conversation  for  the  party. 

The  man  at  the  railings  was  very  gorgeously  attired  with  chains, 
jewellery,  and  waistcoats,  which  the  illumination  from  the  house  lighted 
up  to  great  advantage  ;  his  boots  were  shiny ;  he  had  brass  buttons  to 
his  coat,  and  large  white  wristbands  over  his  knuckles ;  and  indeed 
looked  so  grand,  that  X  imagined  he  beheld  a  member  of  parliament, 
or  a  person  of  consideration  before  him.  Whatever  his  rank,  however, 
the  M.P.,  or  person  of  consideration,  w-as  considerably  excited  by  wine  ; 
for  he  lurched  and  reeled  somewhat  in  his  gait,  and  his  hat  was  cocked 
over  his  wild  and  blood-shot  eyes  in  a  manner  which  no  sober  hat  ever 
could  assume,  nis  copious  black  hair  was  evidently  surreptitious,  and 
his  whiskers  of  the  Tyrian  purple. 

As  Strong's  laughter,  following  after  one  of  his  own  gros  inofs,  CAmc 
ringing  out  of  window,  this  gentleman  without  laughed  and  sniggered 
in  the  queerest  way  likewise,  and  he  slapped  his  thigh  and  winked  at 
Jeames  pensive  in  the  portico,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Plush,  my  boy,  isn't 
that  a  good  story?" 

Jeames's  attention  had  been  gradually  drawn  from  the  moon  in 
the  heavens  to  this  sublunary  scene;  and  he  was  puzzled  and  alarmed 
by  the  appearance  of  the  man  in  shiny  boots.  "A  holtercation,"  he 
remarked,  afterwards,  in  the  servants'  hall — a  "  holtercation  with  a 


370  PENDENNIS. 

feller  in  the  streets  is  never  no  good ;  and  indeed,  he  was  not  hired  for 
any  such  purpose."  So,  having  surveyed  the  man  for  some  time,  who 
went  on  laughing,  reeling,  nodding  his  head  with  tipsy  knowingness, 
Jeamcs  looked  out  of  the  portico,  and  scftly  called  "  Pleaceman,"  and 
beckoned  to  that  officer. 

X  marched  up  resolute,  with  one  Berlin  glove  stuck  in  his  belt- 
side,  and  Jeames  simply  pointed  with  his  index  finger  to  the  individual 
who  was  laughing  against  the  railings.  Not  one  single  word  more 
than  "  Pleaceman,"  did  he  say,  but  stood  there  in  the  calm  summer 
evening,  pointing  calmly :  a  grand  sight. 

X  advanced  to  the  individual,  and  said,  "  Now,  sir,  will  you  have 
the  kindness  to  move  hon  ?" 

The  individual,  who  was  in  perfect  good  humour,  did  not  appear 
to  hear  one  word  which  Policeman  X  uttered,  but  nodded  and  waggled 
his  grinning  head  at  Strong,  until  his  hat  almost  fell  from  his  head 
over  the  area  railings. 

"Now,  sir,  move  on,  do  you  hear?"  cries  X,  in  a  much  more 
peremptory  tone,  and  he  touched  the  stranger  gently  with  one  of  the 
fingers  inclosed  in  the  gauntlets  of  the  Berlin  woof 

He  of  the  many  rings  instantly  started,  or  rather  staggered  back, 
into  what  is  called  an  attitude  of  self-defence,  and  in  that  position 
began  the  operation  which  is  entitled  "  squaring,"  at  Policeman  X, 
and  showed  himself  brave  and  warlike,  if  unsteady.  "  Hullo !  keep 
your  hands  off  a  gentleman,"  he  said,  with  an  oath  which  need  not  be 
repeated. 

"  Move  on  out  of  this,"  said  X,  "  and  don't  be  a  blocking  up  the 
pavement,  staring  into  gentlemen's  dining-rooms." 

"  Not  stare — ho,  ho, — not  stare — that  is  a  good  one,"  replied  the 
other,  with  a  satiric  laugh  and  sneer, — "  Who's  to  prevent  me  from 
staring,  looking  at  my  friends,  if  I  like  ?  not  you,  old  highlows." 
"  Friends !  I  dessay.  Move  on,"  answered  X. 
"  If  you  touch  me,  I'll  pitch  into  you,  I  will,"  roared  the  other. 
"  I  tell  you  I  know  'em  all— That's  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Baronet, 
M.P,— I  know  him,  and  he  knows  me— and  that's  Strong,  and  that's 
the  young  chap  that  made  the  row  at  the  ball.  I  sav.  Strong, 
Strong  ! " 

"  It's  that  d Altamont,"  cried  Sir  Francis  within,  with  a  start 

and  a  guilty  look ;  and  Strong,  also,  with  a  look  of  annoyance,  got  up 
from  the  table,  and  ran  out  to  the  intruder. 

A  gentleman  in  a  white  waistcoat,  running  out  from  a  dining-room 
bare-headed,  a  policeman,  and  an  individual  decently  attired,  engaged 
in  almost  fisticuffs  on  the  pavement,  were  enough  to  make  a  crowd, 
even  in  that  quiet  neighbourhood,  at  half-past  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  and  a  small   mob  began   to   assemble  before   Sir  Francis 


PENDENNIS.  371 

Clavering's  door.  "  For  God's  sake,  come  in,"  Strong  said,  seizing  his 
acquaintance's  arm.  "  Send  for  a  cab,  James,  if  you  please,"  he  added 
in  an  under  voice  to  that  domestic ;  and  carrying  the  excited  gentle- 
man out  of  the  street,  the  outer  door  was  closed  upon  him,  and  the 
small  crowd  began  to  move  away. 

Mr.  Strong  had  intended  to  convey  the  stranger  into  Sir  Francis's 
private  sitting-room,  where  the  hats  of  the  male  guests  were  awaiting 
them,  and  having  there  soothed  his  friend  by  bland  conversation,  to 
have  carried  him  off  as  soon  as  the  cab  arrived — but  the  new  comer 
was  in  a  great  state  of  wrath  at  the  indignity  which  had  been  put 
upon  him ;  and  when  Strong  would  have  led  him  into  the  second 
door,  said  in  a  tipsy  voice,  "  T/tai  ain't  the  door — that's  the  dining- 
room  door — where  the  drink's  going  on—  and  Fll  go  and  have  some, 
by  Jove;  Fll  go  and  have  some."  At  this  audacity  the  butler  stood 
aghast  in  the  hall,  and  placed  himself  before  the  door :  but  it  opened 
behind  him,  and  the  master  of  the  house  made  his  appearance,  with 
anxious  looks. 

"  I  w///  have  some, — by I  will,"  the  intruder  was  roaring  out, 

as  Sir  Francis  came  forward.  "  Hullo  !  Clavering,  I  say,  I'm  come  to 
have  some  wine  with  you  ;  hay !  old  boy — hay,  old  corkscrew  ?  Get 
us  a  bottle  of  the  yellow  seal,  you  old  thief — the  very  best — a  hundred 
rupees  a  dozen,  and  no  mistake." 

The  host  reflected  a  moment  over  his  company.  There  is  only 
Welbore,  Pendennis,  and  those  two  lads,  he  thought — and  with  a 
forced  laugh  and  piteous  look,  he  said, — "  Well,  Altamont,  come  in. 
I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Fm  sure." 

Colonel  Altamont,  for  the  intelligent  reader  has  doubtless  long 
ere  this  discovered  in  the  stranger  his  Excellency  the  Ambassador 
of  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow,  reeled  into  the  dining-room,  with  a 
triumphant  look  towards  Jeaincs,  the  footman,  which  seemed  to  say, 
"  There,  sir,  what  do  you  think  of  that .''  A''ciw,  am  I  a  gentleman  or 
no  ?  "  and  sank  down  into  the  first  vacant  chair.  Sir  Francis  Clavering 
timidly  stammered  out  the  Colonel's  name  to  his  guest  Mr.  Welbore 
Welbore,  and  his  Excellency  began  drinking  wine  forthwith  and 
gazing  round  upon  the  company,  now  with  the  most  wonderful  frowns, 
and  anon  with  the  blandest  smiles,  and  hiccupped  remarks  encomiastic 
of  the  drink  which  he  was  imbibing. 

"  Very  singular  man.  Has  resided  long  in  a  native  court  in 
India,"  Strong  said,  with  great  gravity,  the  Chevalier's  presence  of 
mind  never  deserting  him—"  in  those  Indian  courts  they  get  very 
singular  habits." 

"  Very,"  said  Major  Pendennis,  drily,  and  wondering  what  in 
goodness'  name  was  the  company  into  which  he  had  got. 

Mr.  Foker  was  pleased  with  the  new  comer.     "  It's  the  man  who 


3;  2  PEN  DENNIS. 

would  sing  the  Malay  song  at  the  Back  Kitchen,"  he  whispered  to  Pen. 
••  Tr>-  this  pine,  sir,"  he  then  said  to  Colonel  Altamont,  "  it's  uncom- 
monly fine." 

"Pines— I've  seen  'em  feed  pigs  on  pines,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"All  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow's  pigs  are  fed  on  pines,"  Strong 
whispered  to  Major  Pendsnnis. 

"  O,  of  course,"  the  Major  answered.  Sir  Francis  Clavering  was, 
in  the  meanwhile,  endeavouring  to  make  an  excuse  to  his  brother  guest 
for  the  new  comer's  condition,  and  muttered  something  regarding 
Altamont,  that  he  was  an  extraordinary  character,  very  eccentric,  ver}- 
— had  Indian  habits — didn't  understand  the  rules  of  English  society; 
to  v.-hich  old  Welbore,  a  shrewd  old  gentleman,  who  drank  his  wine 
with  great  regularity,  said,  "  that  seemed  pretty  clear." 

Then,  the  Colonel  seeing  Pen's  honest  face,  regarded  it  for  a  while 
with  as  much  steadiness  as  became  his  condition ;  and  said,  "  I  know 
you,  too,  young  fellow.  I  remember  you.  Baymouth  ball,  by  Jingo. 
Wanted  to  fight  the  Frenchman.  /  remember  you ; "  and  he  laughed, 
and  he  squared  with  his  fists,  and  seemed  hugely  am.used  in  the 
drunken  depths  of  his  mind,  as  these  recollections  passed,  or,  rather, 
reeled  across  it. 

"  i\Ir.  Pendennis,  you  remember  Colonel  Altamont,  at  Baymouth  ?" 
Strong  said:  upon  which  Pen,  bowing  rather  stiiily,  said,  "he  had  the 
pleasure  of  remembering  that  circumstance  perfectly." 

"  IVhafs  his  name  ? "  cried  the  Colonel.  Strong  named  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis again, 

"  Pendennis  I — Pendennis  be  hanged ! "  Altamont  roared  out  to  the 
surprise  of  every  one,  and  thumping  with  his  fist  on  the  table. 

"  My  name  is  also  Pendennis,  sir,"  said  the  Major,  whose  dignity 
was  exceedingly  mortified  by  the  evening's  events — that  he,  Major 
Pendennis,  should  have  been  asked  to  such  a  party,  and  that  a 
drunken  man  should  have  been  introduced  to  it.  "  My  name 
is  Pendennis,  and  I  will  be  obliged  to  you  not  to  curse  it  too 
loudly." 

The  tipsy  man  turned  round  to  look  at  him,  and  as  he  looked,  it 
appeared  as  if  Colonel  Altamont  suddenly  grew  sober.  He  put  his 
hand  across  his  forehead,  and  in  doing  so,  displaced  somewhat  the 
black  wig  which  he  wore;  and  his  eyes  stared  fiercely  at  the  Major, 
who,  in  his  turn,  like  a  resolute  old  warrior  as  he  was,  looked  at  his 
opponent  very  keenly  and  steadily.  At  the  end  of  the  mutual  inspec- 
tion, Altamont  began  to  button  up  his  brass-buttoned  coat,  and  rising 
up  from  his  chair,  suddenly,  and  to  the  company's  astonishment, 
reeled  towards  the  door,  and  issued  from  it,  followed  by  Strong :  all 
that  the  latter  heard  him  utter  was— "  Captain  Beak!  Captain  Beak, 
by  jingo ! " 


PENDENNIS.  373 

There  had  not  passed  above  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  his  strange 
appearance  to  his  equally  sudden  departure.  The  two  young  men  and 
the  baronet's  other  guest  wondered  at  the  scene,  and  could  find  no 
explanation  for  it.  Clavering  seemed  exceedingly  pale  and  agitated, 
and  turned  with  looks  of  almost  terror  towards  Major  Pendennis. 
The  latter  had  been  eyeing  his  host  keenly  for  a  minute  or  two.  "  Do 
you  know  him .'' "  asked  Sir  Francis  of  the  Major. 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  the  fellow,"  the  Major  replied,  looking  as  if 
he,  too,  was  puzzled.  "  Yes,  I  have  it.  He  was  a  deserter  from  the 
Horse  Artillerj^,  who  got  into  the  Nawaub's  service.  I  remember  his 
face  quite  well." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Clavering,  with  a  sigh  which  indicated  immense  relief 
of  mind,  and  the  Major  looked  at  him  with  a  twinkle  of  his  sharp  old 
eyes.  The  cab  which  Strong  had  desired  to  be  called,  drove  away 
with  the  Chevalier  and  Colonel  Altamont;  coffee  was  brought  to  the 
remaining  gentlemen,  and  they  went  up-stairs  to  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room,  Foker  declaring  confidentially  to  Pen  that  "  this  was 
the  rummest  go  he  ever  saw,"  which  decision  Pen  said,  laughing. 
"  showed  great  discrimination  on  Mr.  Foker^s  part." 

Then,  according  to  her  promise,  Miss  Amory  made  music  for  the 
young  men.  Foker  was  enraptured  with  her  performance,  and  kindly 
joined  in  the  airs  which  she  sang,  when  he  happened  to  be  acquainted 
with  them.  Pen  affected  to  talk  aside  with  others  of  the  party,  but 
Blanche  brought  him  quickly  to  the  piano,  by  singing  some  of  his 
own  words,  those  which  we  have  given  in  a  previous  number,  indeed, 
and  which  the  Sylphide  had  herself,  she  said,  set  to  music.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  air  was  hers,  or  how  much  of  it  was  arranged  for 
her  by  Signor  Twankidillo,  from  whom  she  took  lessons  :  but  good 
or  bad,  original  or  otherwise,  it  delighted  Mr.  Pen,  who  remained  by 
her  side,  and  turned  the  leaves  now  for  her  most  assiduously — "  Gad  ! 
how  I  wish  I  could  write  verses  like  you.  Pen,"  Foker  sighed  after- 
wards to  his  companion.  "  If  I  could  do  'em,  wouldn't  I,  that's  all  } 
But  I  never  was  a  dab  at  writing,  you  see,  and  I'm  sorry  I  was  so  idle 
when  I  was  at  school." 

No  mention  was  made  before  the  ladies  of  the  curious  little  scene 
which  had  been  transacted  below  stairs ;  although  Pen  was  just  on 
the  poiat  of  describing  it  to  Miss  Amory,  when  that  young  lady 
inquired  for  Captain  Strong,  who  she  wished  should  join  her  in  a  duet. 
But  chancing  to  look  up  towards  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Arthur  saw  a 
peculiar  expression  of  alarm  in  the  baronet's  ordinarily  vacuous  face, 
and  discreetly  held  his  tongue.  It  was  rather  a  dull  evening.  Welbore 
went  to  sleep,  as  he  always  did  at  music  and  after  dinner:  nor  did 
Major  Pendennis  entertain  the  ladies  with  copious  anecdotes  and 
endless  little  scandalous  stories,  as  his  wont  was,  but  sate  silent  for 


,..  PENDEXNIS. 

j/4 

the  most  part,  and  appeared  to  be  listening  to  the  niusic,  and  watch- 
ing the  fair  young  performer. 

The  hour  of  departure  having  arrived,  the  Major  rose,  regretting 
that  so  dehghtful  an  evening  should  have  passed  away  so  quickly,  and 
addressed  a  particularly  fine  compliment  to  Miss  Amory,  upon  her 
splendid  talents  as  a  singer.  "  Your  daughter.  Lady  Clavering,"  he 
said  to  that  lady,  "  is  a  perfect  nightingale— a  perfect  nightingale, 
begad !  I  have  scarcely  ever  heard  anything  equal  to  her,  and  her 
pronunciation  of  every  language— begad,  of  every  language— seems  to 
me  to  be  perfect;  and  the  best  houses  in  London  must  open  before  a 
young  lady  who  has  such  talents,  and,  allow  an  old  fellow  to  say.  Miss 
Amor)',  such  a  face."' 

Blanche  was  as  much  astonished  by  these  compliments  as  Pen 
was,  to  whom  his  uncle,  a  little  time  since,  had  been  speaking  in  very^ 
disparaging  terms  of  the  Sylph.  The  Major  and  the  two  young  men 
walked  home  together,  after  Mr.  Foker  had  placed  his  mother  in  her 
carriage,  and  procured  a  light  for  an  enormous  cigar. 

The  young  gentleman's  company  or  his  tobacco  did  not  appear  to 
be  agreeable  to  IMajor  Pendennis,  who  eyed  him  askance  several 
times,  and  with  a  look  which  plainly  indicated  that  he  wished 
Mr.  Foker  would  take  his  leave ;  but  Foker  hung  on  resolutely  to  the 
uncle  and  nephew,  even  until  they  came  to  the  formers  door  in  Bury 
Street,  where  the  Major  wished  the  lads  good  night. 

"  And  I  say.  Pen,"  he  said  in  a  confidential  whisper,  calling  his 
nephew  back,  "  mind  you  make  a  point  of  calling  in  Grosvenor  Place 
to-morrow.  They've  been  uncommonly  civil;  mons'ously  civil  and 
kind." 

Pen  promised  and  wondered,  and  the  INIajor's  door  having  been 
closed  upon  him  by  Morgan,  Foker  took  Pen's  arm,  and  walked  with 
him  for  some  time  silently  puffing  his  cigar.  At  last,  when  they  had 
reached  Charing  Cross  on  Arthur's  way  home  to  the  Temple,  Harry 
Foker  relieved  himself,  and  broke  out  with  that  eulogium  upon  poetrj-, 
and  those  regrets  regarding  a  misspent  youth  which  have  just  been 
mentioned.  And  all  the  way  along  the  Strand,  and  up  to  the  door  of 
Pen's  very  staircase,  in  Lamb  Court,  Temple,  young  Harr}-  Foker  did 
not  cease  to  speak  about  singing  and  Blanche  Amor)-. 


PENDENNIS.  375 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

RELATES   TO   MR.    HARRY   FOKER'S  AFFAIRS. 

SINCE  that  fatal  but  delightful  night  in  Grosvenor  Place,  Mr. 
Harry  Foker's  heart  had  been  in  such  a  state  of  agitation  as  you 
would  hardly  have  thought  so  great  a  philosopher  could  endure. 
When  we  remember  what  good  advice  he  had  given  to  Pen  in  former 
days,  how  an  early  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  the  world  had  manifested 
itself  in  the  gifted  youth ;  how  a  constant  course  of  self-indulgence, 
such  as  becomes  a  gentleman  of  his  means  and  expectations,  ought 
by  right  to  have  increased  his  cynicism,  and  made  him,  with  every 
succeeding  day  of  his  life,  care  less  and  less  for  every  individual  in 
the  world,  with  the  single  exception  of  Mr.  Harry  Foker,  one  may 
wonder  that  he  should  fall  into  the  mishap  to  which  most  of  us  are 
subject  once  or  twice  in  our  lives,  and  disquiet  his  great  mind  about 
a  woman.  But  Foker,  though  early  wise  was  still  a  man.  He  could 
no  more  escape  the  common  lot  than  Achilles,  or  Ajax,  or  Lord  Nelson, 
or  Adam  our  first  father,  and  now,  his  time  being  come,  young  Harry 
became  a  victim  to  Love,  the  All-conqueror. 

When  he  went  to  the  Back  Kitchen  that  night  after  quitting 
Arthur  Pendennis  at  his  staircase-door  in  Lamb  Court,  the  gin-twist 
and  devilled  turkey  had  no  charms  for  him,  the  jokes  of  his  com- 
panions fell  flatly  on  his  ear ;  and  when  Mr.  Hodgen,  the  singer  of 
"  The  Body  Snatcher,"  had  a  new  chant  even  more  dreadful  and 
humorous  than  that  famous  composition,  Foker,  although  he  appeared 
his  friend,  and  said  "  Bravo,  Hodgen,"  as  common  politeness  and  his 
position  as  one  of  the  chefs  of  the  Back  Kitchen  bound  him  to  do,  yet 
never  distinctly  heard  one  word  of  the  song,  which  under  its  title  of 
"  The  Cat  in  the  Cupboard,"  Hodgen  has  since  rendered  so  famous. 
Late  and  very  tired,  he  slipped  into  his  private  apartments  at  home 
and  sought  the  downy  pillow,  but  his  slumbers  were  disturbed  by  the 
fever  of  his  soul,  and  the  image  of  Miss  Amory. 

Heavens,  how  stale  and  distasteful  his  former  pursuits  and  friend- 
ships appeared  to  him!  He  had  not  been,  up  to  the  present  time, 
much  accustomed  to  the  society  of  females  of  his  own  rank  in  life. 
When  he  spoke  of  such,  he  called  them  "  modest  women."  That 
virtue  which  let  us  hope  they  possessed,  had  not  hitherto  compen- 


376  PENDENNIS. 

s;itocl  to  Mr.  Foker  for  the  absence  of  more  lively  qualities  which 
most  of  his  own  relatives  did  not  enjoy,  and  which  he  found  in 
Mcsdcmoiselles  the  ladies  of  the  theatre.  His  mother,  though  good 
and  tender,  did  not  amuse  her  boy;  his  cousins,  the  daughters  of  his 
maternal  uncle,  the  respectable  Earl  of  Rosherville,  wearied  him 
l)eyond  measure.  One  was  blue,  and  a  geologist ;  one  was  a  horse- 
woman, and  smoked  cigars;  one  was  exceedingly  Low  Church,  and 
had  the  most  heterodox  views  on  religious  matters ;  at  least,  so  the 
otiier  said,  who  was  herself  of  the  very  Highest  Church  faction,  and 
made  the  cupboard  in  her  room  into  an  oratory,  and  fasted  on  every 
Friday  in  the  year.  Their  paternal  house  of  Drummington,  Foker 
could  very  seldom  be  got  to  visit.  He  swore  he  had  rather  go  on 
tlie  tread-mill  than  stay  there.  He  was  not  much  beloved  by  the 
inhabitants.  Lord  Erith,  Lord  Rosherville's  heir,  considered  his 
cousin  a  low  person,  of  deplorably  vulgar  habits  and  manners  ;  while 
Foker,  and  with  equal  reason,  voted  Erith  a  prig  and  a  dullard,  the 
nightcap  of  the  House  of  Commons,  the  Speaker's  opprobrium,  the 
dreariest  of  philanthropic  spouters.  Nor  could  George  Robert,  Earl 
of  Gravesend  and  Rosherville,  ever  forget  that  on  one  evening  when 
he  condescended  to  play  at  billiards  with  his  nephew,  that  young 
gentleman  poked  his  lordship  in  the  side  with  his  cue,  and  said, 
"  Well,  old  cock.  Eve  seen  many  a  bad  stroke  in  my  life,  but  I  never 
saw  such  a  bad  one  as  that  there."  He  played  the  game  out  with 
angelic  sweetness  of  temper,  for  Harry  was  his  guest  as  well  as  his 
nephew;  but  he  was  nearly  having  a  fit  in  the  night;  and  he  kept  to 
his  own  rooms  until  young  Harry  quitted  Drummington  on  his  return 
to  Oxbridge,  where  the  interesting  youth  was  finishing  his  education 
at  the  time  when  the  occurrence  took  place.  It  was  an  awful  blow 
to  the  venerable  earl ;  the  circumstance  was  never  alluded  to  in  the 
family;  he  shunned  Foker  whenever  he  came  to  see  them  in  London 
or  in  the  countr)-,  and  could  hardly  be  brought  to  gasp  out  a  "  How 
d'ye  do.^"  to  the  young  blasphemer.  But  he  would  not  break  his 
sister  Agnes's  heart,  by  banishing  Harry  from  the  family  altogether ; 
nor,  indeed,  could  he  afford  to  break  with  Mr.  Foker,  senior,  between 
Mhom  and  his  lordship  there  had  been  many  private  transactions, 
producing  an  exchange  of  bank  cheques  from  Mr.  Foker,  and  auto- 
graphs from  the  earl  himself,  with  the  letters  I  O  U  written  over  his 
illustrious  signature. 

Besides  the  four  daughters  of  Lord  Gravesend  whose  various 
qualities  have  been  enumerated  in  the  former  paragraph,  his  lordship 
was  blessed  with  a  fifth  girl,  the  Lady  Ann  Milton,  who,  from  her 
earliest  years  and  nursery,  had  been  destined  to  a  peculiar  position 
in  hfe.  It  was  ordained  between  her  parents  and  her  aunt,  that  when 
Mr.  Harry  Foker  attained  a  proper  age,  Lady  Ann  should  become  his 


PENDENNIS.  2>77 

wife.  The  idea  had  been  familiar  to  her  mind  when  she  yet  woie 
pinafores,  and  when  Harry,  the  dirtiest  of  httle  boys,  used  to  come 
back  with  black  eyes  from  school  to  Drummington,  or  to  his  father's 
house  of  Logwood,  where  Lady  Ann  lived  much  with  her  aunt.  Both 
of  the  young  people  coincided  with  the  arrangement  proposed  by  the 
elders,  without  any  protests  or  difficulty.  It  no  more  entered  Lady 
Ann's  mind  to  question  the  order  of  her  father,  than  it  would  have 
entered  Esther's  to  dispute  the  commands  of  Ahasuerus,  The  heir- 
apparent  of  the  house  of  Foker  was  also  obedient;  for  when  the  old 
gentleman  said,  "  Harry,  your  uncle  and  I  have  agreed  that  when 
you're  of  a  proper  age,  you'll  marry  Lady  Ann.  She  won't  have  any 
money,  but  she's  good  blood,  and  a  good  one  to  look  at,  and  I  shall 
make  you  comfortable.  If  you  refuse,  you'll  have  your  mother's 
jointure,  and  two  hundred  a  year  during  my  life." — Harry,  who  knew 
that  his  sire,  though  a  man  of  few  words,  was  yet  implicitly  to  be 
trusted,  acquiesced  at  once  in  the  parental  decree,  and  said,  "  Well, 
sir,  if  Ann's  agreeable,  I  say  ditto.     She's  not  a  bad-looking  girl." 

"And  she  has  the  best  blood  in  England,  sir.  Your  mother's 
blood,  your  own  blood,  sir,"  said  the  Brewer.  "  There's  nothing  like 
it,  sir." 

"  Well,  sir,  as  you  like  it,"  Harry  replied.  "  When  you  want  me, 
please  ring  the  bell.  Only  there's  no  hurry,  and  I  hope  you'll  give  us 
a  long  day.     I  should  like  to  have  my  iling  out  before  I  marry." 

"  Fling  away,  Harry !  "  answered  the  benevolent  father.  "  Nobody 
prevents  you,  do  they .'' "  And  so  very  little  more  was  said  upon  this 
subject,  and  Mr.  Hany  pursued  those  amusements  in  life  which  suited 
him  best ;  and  hung  up  a  little  picture  of  his  cousin  in  his  sitting- 
room,  amidst  the  French  prints,  the  favourite  actresses  and  dancers, 
the  racing  and  coaching  works  of  art,  which  suited  his  taste  and 
formed  his  gallery.  It  was  an  insignificant  little  picture,  representing 
a  simple  round  face  with  ringlets ;  and  it  made,  as  it  must  be  con- 
fessed, a  very  poor  figure  by  the  side  of  Mademoiselle  Petitot,  dancing 
over  a  rainbow,  or  Mademoiselle  Redowa,  grinning  in  red  boots  and  a 
lancer's  cap. 

Being  engaged  and  disposed  of.  Lady  Ann  Milton  did  not  go  out 
so  much  in  the  world  as  her  sisters :  and  often  stayed  at  home  in 
London  at  the  family  house  in  Gaunt  Square,  when  her  mamma  with 
the  other  ladies  went  abroad.  They  talked  and  they  danced  with  one 
man  after  another,  and  the  men  came  and  went,  and  the  stories  about 
them  were  various.  But  there  was  only  this  one  story  about  Ann  :  she 
was  engaged  to  Harry  Foker;  she  never  was  to  tliink  about  anybody 
else.     It  was  not  a  very  amusing  story. 

Well,  the  instant  Foker  awoke  on  the  day  after  Lady  Clavcring's 
dinner,  there  was  Blanche's  image  glaring  upon  him  with  its  clear  grey 


378 


PEXDENNIS. 


eyes,  and  winning  smile.  There  was  her  tune  ringing  in  his  ears, 
"  yet  round  about  the  spot,  ofttimes  I  hover,  ofttimes  I  hover,"  which 
poor  Foker  began  piteously  to  hum,  as  he  sat  up  in  his  bed  under  the 
crimson  silken  coverlet.  Opposite  him  was  a  French  print  of  a 
Turkish  lady  and  her  Greek  lover,  surprised  by  a  venerable  Ottoman, 
the  lady's  husband ;  on  the  other  wall,  was  a  French  print  of  a  gentle- 
man and  lady,  riding  and  kissing  each  other  at  the  full  gallop ;  all 
round  the  chaste  bed-room  were  more  French  prints,  either  portraits 
of  gauzy  nymphs  of  the  Opera  or  lovely  illustrations  of  the  novels ;  or 
mayhap,  an  English  chef-d'oeuvre  or  two,  in  which  ]Miss  Pinckney  of 
T.  R.  E.  O.  would  be  represented  in  tight  pantaloons  in  her  favourite 
page  part;  or  Miss  Rougemont  as  Venus  j  their  value  enhanced  by  the 
signatures  of  these  ladies,  INIaria  Pinckney,  or  Frederica  Rougemont, 
inscribed  underneath  the  prints  in  an  exquisite  fac-simile.  Such  were 
the  pictures  in  which  honest  Harry  delighted.  He  was  no  worse  than 
many  of  hie  neighbours ;  he  was  an  idle  jovial  kindly  fast  man  about 
town ;  and  if  his  rooms  were  rather  profusely  decorated  with  works  of 
French  art,  so  that  simple  Lady  Agnes,  his  mamma,  on  entering  the 
apartments  where  her  darling  sate  enveloped  in  fragrant  clouds  of 
Latakia,  was  often  bewildered  by  the  novelties  which  she  beheld  there, 
why,  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  was  richer  than  most  young  men, 
and  could  better  afford  to  gratify  his  taste. 

A  letter  from  ^liss  Pinckney,  written  in  a  very  degagd  style  of 
spelling  and  hand-writing,  scrawling  freely  over  the  filigree  paper,  and 
commencing  by  calling  Mr.  Harry  her  dear  Hokey-pokey-fokey,  lay  on 
his  bed-table  by  his  side,  amidst  keys,  sovereigns,  cigar-cases,  and  a 
bit  of  verbena,  which  Miss  Amory  had  given  him,  and  reminding  him 
of  the  arrival  of  the  day  when  he  was  "  to  stand  that  dinner  at  the 
Elefant  and  Castle,  at  Richmond,  which  he  had  promised ; "  a  card 
for  a  private  box  at  Miss  Rougemont's  approaching  benefit,  a  bundle 
of  tickets  for  "  Ben  Budgeon's  night,  the  North  Lancashire  Pippin, 
at  Martin  Faunce's,  the  Three-cornered  Hat,  in  St.  Martin's  Lane ; 
where  Conkey  Sam,  Dick  the  Nailor,  the  Deadman,  (the  Worcester- 
shire Nobber,)  would  put  on  the  gloves,  and  the  lovers  of  the  good 
old  British  sport  were  invited  to  attend" — these  and  sundry  other 
memoirs  of  Mr.  Poker's  pursuits  and  pleasures  lay  on  the  table  by  his 
side  when  he  woke. 

Ah  !  how  faint  all  these  pleasures  seemed  now  \  What  did  he  care 
for  Conkey  Sam  or  the  Worcestershire  Nobber  ?  What  for  the  French 
prints  ogling  him  from  all  sides  of  the  room ;  those  regular  stunning 
slap-up  out-and-outers  ?  And  Pinckney  spelling  bad  and  calling  him 
Hokey-fokey,  confound  her  impudence!  The  idea  of  being  engaged 
to  a  dinner  at  the  Elephant  and  Castle  at  Richmond  with  that  old 
woman,  (who  was  seven  and  thirty  years  old,  if  she  was  a  day,)  filled 


PENDENNIS.  379 

hi'i  mind  with  dreary  disgust  now,  instead  of  that  pleasure  which  he 
had  only  yesterday  expected  to  find  from  the  entertainment. 

When  his  fond  mamma  beheld  her  boy  that  morning,  she  remarked 
on  the  pallor  of  his  cheek,  and  the  general  gloom  of  his  aspect.  "  Why 
do  you  go  on  playing  billiards  at  that  wicked  Spratt's  ?  "  Lady  Agnes 
asked.  "  My  dearest  child,  those  billiards  will  kill  you,  I'm  sure 
they  will." 

"  It  isn't  the  billiards,"  Harry  said,  gloomily. 

"  Then  it's  the  dreadful  Back  Kitchen,"  said  the  Lady  Agnes.  "  I've 
often  thought,  d'you  know,  Harry,  of  writing  to  the  landlady,  and 
begging  that  she  would  have  the  kindness  to  put  only  very  little  wine 
in  the  negus  which  you  take,  and  see  that  you  have  your  shawl  on 
before  you  get  into  your  brougham." 

"  Do,  ma'am.  Mrs.  Cutts  is  a  most  kind  motherly  woman,"  Harry 
said,  "  But  it  isn't  the  Back  Kitchen,  neither,"  he  added,  with  a 
ghastly  sigh. 

As  Lady  Agnes  never  denied  her  son  anything,  and  fell  into  all  his 
ways  with  the  fondest  acquiescence,  she  was  rewarded  by  a  perfect 
confidence  on  young  Harry's  part,  who  never  thought  to  disguise  from 
her  a  knowledge  of  the  haunts  which  he  frequented ;  and,  on  the  con- 
trary, brought  her  home  choice  anecdotes  from  the  clubs  and  billiard- 
rooms,  which  the  simple  lady  relished,   if  she  did  not  understand. 
"  My  son  goes  to  Spratt's,"  she  would  say  to  her  confidential  friends. 
"  All  the  young  men  go  to  Spratt's  after  their  balls.     It  is  de  riguetir, 
my  dear;  and  they  play  billiards   as  they  used  to  play  macao  and 
hazard  in  Mr.  Fox's  time.    Yes,  my  dear  father  often  told  me  that  they 
sate  up  always  until  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  with  Mr.  Fox  at 
Brookes's,  whom  I  remember  at  Drummington,  when  I   was  a  little 
girl,  in  a  buff  waistcoat  and  black  satin  small-clothes.     My  brother 
Erith  never  played  as  a  young  man,  nor  sat  up  late — he  had  no  health 
for  it ;  but  my  boy  must  do  as  everybody  does,  you  know.     Yes,  and 
then  he  often  goes  to  a  place  called  the  Back  Kitchen,  frequented  by 
all  the  wits  and  authors,  you  know,  whom  one  does  not  see  in  society, 
but  whom  it  is  a  great  privilege  and  pleasure  for  Harry  to  meet,  and 
there  he  hears  the  questions  of  the  day  discussed  ;  and  my  dear  father 
often  said  that  it  was  our  duty  to  encourage  literature,  and  he  had 
hoped  to  see  the  late  Dr.  Johnson  at  Drummington,  only  Dr.  Johnson 
died.     Yes,  and  Mr.  Sheridan  came  over,  and  drank  a  great  deal  of 
wine— everybody   drank   a  great   deal   of  wine  in  those  days— and 
papa's  wine-merchant's  bill  was  ten  times  as  much  as  Erith's  is,  who 
gets  it  as  he  wants  it  from  Fortnum  and  Mason's,  and  doesn't  keep 
any  stock  at  all." 

"  That  was  an  uncommon  good  dinner  we  had  yesterday,  ma'am," 
the  artful  Harrv  broke  out.     "Their  clear  soup's  better  than  ours. 


33o  PENDENNIS. 

Moufflet  will  put  too  much  tarragon  into  ever)'thing.  The  supreme  de 
volaille  was  very  good— uncommon,  and  the  sweets  were  better  than 
Moiifflet's  sweets.  Did  you  taste  the  plombi^re,  ma'am,  and  the 
maraschino  jelly  ?     Stunningly  good  that  maraschino  jelly  ! " 

Lady  Agnes  expressed  her  agreement  in  these,  as  in  almost  all  other 
sentiments  of  her  son,  who  continued  the  artful  conversation,  saying, 

"  Very  handsome  house  that  of  the  Claverings.  Furniture,  I  should 
say,  got  up  regardless  of  expense.  Magnificent  display  of  plate, 
ma'am."     The  lady  assented  to  all  these  propositions. 

"  Ver)'  nice  people  the  Claverings." 

<'  H'm  !  "  said  Lady  Agnes. 

'  I  know  what  you  mean.  Lady  C.  ain't  distangy  exactly,  but  she 
is  very  good-natured." 

"  O,  very ! "  mamma  said,  who  was  herself  one  of  the  most  good- 
natured  of  women. 

"And  Sir  Francis,  he  don't  talk  much  before  ladies;  but  after 
dinner  he  comes  out  uncommon  strong,  ma'am — a  highly  agreeable 
well-informed  man.  When  will  you  ask  them  to  dinner }  Look  out 
for  an  early  day,  ma'am ; "  and  looking  into  Lady  Agnes's  pocket-book, 
he  chose  a  day  only  a  fortnight  hence  (an  age  that  fortnight  seemed 
to  the  young  gentleman),  when  the  Claverings  were  to  be  invited  to 
Grosvenor  Street. 

The  obedient  Lady  Agnes  wrote  the  required  invitation.  She  was 
accustomed  to  do  so  without  consulting  her  husband,  who  had  his 
own  society  and  habits,  and  who  left  his  wife  to  see  her  own  friends 
alone.  Harry  looked  at  the  card:  but  there  was  an  omission  in  the 
invitation  which  did  not  please  him. 

"  You  have  not  asked  Miss  What-d'ye-caU'um — Miss  Emer}-,  Lady 
Clavering's  daughter." 

"  O  that  little  creature ! "  Lady  Agnes  cried.  "  No,  I  think  not, 
Harry." 

"  We  must  ask  Miss  Amory,"  Foker  said.  "  I — I  want  to  ask 
Pendennis ;  and — and  he's  very  sweet  upon  her.  Don't  you  think  she 
sings  very  well,  ma'am  ? " 

"  I  thought  her  rather  forward,  and  didn't  listen  to  her  singing. 
She  only  sang  at  you  and  Mr.  Pendennis,  it  seemed  to  me.  But  I  will 
ask  her  if  you  wish,  Harry,"  and  so  Miss  Amorj-'s  name  was  written 
on  the  card  with  her  mother's. 

This  piece  of  diplomacy  being  triumphantly  executed,  Harry 
embraced  his  fond  parent  with  the  utmost  affection,  and  retired  to  his 
own  apartments,  where  he  stretched  himself  on  his  ottoman,  and  lay 
brooding  silently,  sighing  for  the  day  which  was  to  bring  the  fair  Miss 
Amory  under  his  paternal  roof,  and  devising  a  hundred  wild  schemes 
for  meeting  her. 


PENDENNIS.  381 

On  his  return  from  making  the  grand  tour,  Mr.  Foker,  junior,  had 
brought  with  him  a  polyglot  valet,  who  took  the  place  of  Stoopid,  and 
condescended  to  wait  at  dinner,  attired  in  shirt-fronts  of  worked 
muslin,  with  many  gold  studs  and  chains.  This  man,  who  was  of  no 
particular  country,  and  spoke  all  languages  indifferently  ill,  made 
himself  useful  to  Mr.  Harry  in  a  variety  of  ways, — read  all  the  artless 
youth's  corresponden'ce,  knew  his  favourite  haunts  and  the  addresses 
of  his  acquaintance,  and  officiated  at  the  private  dinners  which  the 
young  gentleman  gave.  As  Harry  lay  upon  his  sofa  after  his  interview 
with  his  mamma,  robed  in  a  wonderful  dressing-gown,  and  puffing  his 
pipe  in  gloomy  silence,  Anatole,  too,  must  have  remarked  that  some- 
thing affected  his  master's  spirits ;  though  he  did  not  betray  any  ill- 
bred  sympathy  with  Harry's  agitation  of  mind.  When  Harry  began 
to  dress  himself  in  his  out-of-door  morning  costume,  he  was  very  hard 
indeed  to  please,  and  particularly  severe  and  snappish  about  his 
toilet:  he  tried,  and  cursed,  pantaloons  of  many  different  stripes, 
checks,  and  colours:  all  the  boots  were  villanously  varnished:  the 
shirts  too  "loud"  in  pattern.  He  scented  his  linen  and  person  with 
peculiar  richness  this  day;  and  what  must  have  been  the  valet's 
astonishment,  when,  after  some  blushing  and  hesitation  on  Harry's 
part,  the  young  gentleman  asked,  "  I  say,  Anatole,  when  I  engaged 
you,  didn't  you — hem — didn't  you  say  that  you  could  dress — hem — 
dress  hair  ?  " 

The  valet  said,  "  Yes,  he  could.'' 

"  Cherchy  alors  une  paire  de  tongs, — et— curly  jnoi  nil  peiv,^'' 
Mr.  Foker  said,  in  an  easy  manner;  and  the  valet,  wondering 
whether  his  master  was  in  love  or  was  going  masquerading,  went  m 
search  of  the  articles, — first  from  the  old  butler  who  waited  upon 
Mr.  Foker,  senior,  on  whose  bald  pate  the  tongs  would  have  scarcely 
found  a  hundred  hairs  to  seize,  and  finally  of  the  lady  who  had  the 
charge  of  the  meek  auburn  fronts  of  the  Lady  Agnes.  And  the  tongs 
being  got.  Monsieur  Anatole  twisted  his  young  mastei-'s  locks  until 
he  had  made  Harry's  head  as  curly  as  a  negro's  ;  after  which  the  youth 
dressed  himself  with  the  utmost  care  and  splendour,  and  proceeded  to 
sally  out. 

"At  what  dime  sail  I  order  de  drag,  sir,  to  be  at  Miss  Pingncy's 
door,  sir  ? "  the  attendant  whispered  as  his  master  was  going  forth. 

"  Confound  her !— Put  the  dinner  off— I  can't  go  !  "  said  Foker. 
"No,  hang  it— I  must  go.  Poyntz  and  Rougemont,  and  ever  so 
many  more,  are  coming.  The  drag  at  Pelham  Corner  at  six  o'clock, 
Anatole." 

The  drag  was  not  one  of  Mr.  Foker's  own  equipages,  but  was 
hired  from  a  livery-stable  for  festive  purposes;  Foker,  however,  put 
his  own  carriage  into  requisition  that  morning,  and  for  what  purpose 


382  PENDENNIS. 

does  the  kind  reader  suppose  ?  Why  to  drive  down  to  Lamb  Court, 
Temple,  taking  Grosvenor  Place  by  the  way  (which  lies  in  the  exact 
direction  of  the  Temple  from  Grosvenor  Street,  as  everybody  knows), 
where  he  just  had  the  pleasure  of  peeping  upwards  at  Miss  Amorj-'s 
pink  window  curtains ;  having  achieved  which  satisfactor>'  feat,  he 
drove  oflf  to  Pen's  chambers.  Why  did  he  want  to  see  his  dear  friend 
Pen  so  much  ?  Why  did  he  yearn  and  long  after  him  ?  and  did  it 
seem  necessarj'  to  Poker's  very  existence  that  he  should  see  Pen  that 
morning,  having  parted  with  him  in  perfect  health  on  the  night 
previous  ?  Pen  had  lived  two  years  in  London,  and  Foker  had  not 
paid  half-a-dozen  visits  to  his  chambers.  ^^Tlat  sent  him  thither  now 
in  such  a  hurry  ? 

What  ?— If  any  young  ladies  read  this  page,  I  have  only  to  inform 
them  that  when  the  same  mishap  befals  them,  which  now  had  for  more 
than  twelve  hours  befallen  Harr}-  Foker,  people  will  grow  interesting 
to  them  for  whom  they  did  not  care  sixpence  on  the  day  before ;  as  on 
the  other  hand  persons  of  whom  they  fancied  themselves  fond  will  be 
found  to  have  become  insipid  and  disagreeable.  Then  your  dearest 
Ehza  or  IMaria  of  the  other  day,  to  whom  you  wrote  letters  and  sent 
locks  of  hair  yards  long,  will  on  a  sudden  be  as  indifferent  to  you  as 
your  stupidest  relation ;  whilst,  on  the  contrary,  about  his  relations 
you  will  begin  to  feel  such  a  warm  interest !  such  a  loving  desire  to 
ingratiate  yourself  with  his  mamma  I  such  a  liking  for  that  dear  kind 
old  man  his  father !  If  He  is  in  the  habit  of  visiting  at  any  house, 
what  advances  you  will  make  in  order  to  visit  there  too  !  If  He  has  a 
married  sister,  you  will  like  to  spend  long  mornings  with  her.  You 
will  fatigue  your  servant  by  sending  notes  to  her,  for  which  there  will 
be  the  most  pressing  occasion,  twice  or  thrice  in  a  day.  You  will  crj- 
if  your  mamma  objects  to  your  going  too  often  to  see  His  family.  The 
only  one  of  them  you  will  dislike  is,  perhaps,  his  younger  brother,  who 
is  at  home  for  the  holidays,  and  who  will  persist  in  staying  in  the 
room  when  you  come  to  see  your  dear  new-found  friend,  his  darling 
second  sister.  Something  like  this  will  happen  to  you,  young  ladies, 
or,  at  any  rate,  let  us  hope  it  may.  Yes,  you  must  go  through  the  hot 
fits  and  the  cold  fits  of  that  pretty  fever.  Your  mothers,  if  they  would 
acknowledge  it,  have  passed  through  it  before  you  were  born,  your 
dear  papa  being  the  object  of  the  passion,  of  course, — who  could  it  be 
but  he  ?  And  as  you  suffer  it,  so  will  your  brothers,  in  their  way, — 
and  after  their  kind.  More  selfish  than  you :  more  eager  and  head- 
strong than  you :  they  will  nash  on  their  destiny  w^hen  the  doomed 
charmer  makes  her  appearance.  Or  if  they  don't,  and  you  don't. 
Heaven  help  you !  As  the  gambler  said  of  his  dice,  to  love  and  win 
is  the  best  thing,  to  love  and  lose  is  the  next  best.  Now,  then,  if 
you   ask  why  Henr}'  Foker,  Esquire,  was   in   such  a  hurr>'  to   see 


PENDENNIS.  383 

Arthur  Pendennis,  and  felt  such  a  sudden  value  and  esteem  for  him, 
there  is  no  difficulty  in  saying  it  was  because  Pen  had  become  really 
valuable  in  Mr.  Foker's  eyes :  because  if  Pen  was  not  the  rose,  he  had 
yet  been  near  that  fragrant  flower  of  love.  Was  not  he  in  the  habit  of 
going  to  her  house  in  London  ?  Did  he  not  live  near  her  in  the 
country  ? — know  all  about  the  enchantress  ?  What,  I  wonder,  would 
Lady  Ann  Milton,  Mr.  Foker's  cousin  and  pretendue,  have  said,  if  her 
ladyship  had  known  all  that  was  going  on  in  the  bosom  of  that  funny 
little  gentleman  ? 

Alas !  when  Foker  reached  Lamb  Court,  leaving  his  carriage  for 
the  admiration  of  the  little  clerks  who  were  lounging  in  the  archway 
that  leads  thence  into  Flag  Court,  which  leads  into  Upper  Temple 
Lane,  Warrington  was  in  the  chambers  but  Pen  was  absent.  Pen  was 
gone  to  the  printing-office  to  see  his  proofs.  "  Would  Foker  have  a 
pipe,  and  should  the  laundress  go  to  the  Cock  and  get  him  some 
beer.-*" — Warrington  asked,  remarking  with  a  pleased  surprise  the 
splendid  toilet  of  this  scented  and  shiny-booted  young  aristocrat ;  but 
Foker  had  not  the  slightest  wish  for  beer  or  tobacco :  he  had  very 
important  business:  he  rushed  away  to  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette"  office, 
still  bent  upon  finding  Pen.  Pen  had  quitted  that  place.  Foker 
wanted  him  that  they  might  go  together  to  call  upon  Lady  Clavering. 
Foker  went  away  disconsolate,  and  whiled  away  an  hour  or  two 
vaguely  at  clubs ;  and  when  it  was  time  to  pay  a  visit,  he  thought  it 
would  be  but  decent  and  polite  to  drive  to  Grosvenor  Place  and  leave 
a  card  upon  Lady  Clavering.  He  had  not  the  courage  to  ask  to  see 
her  when  the  door  was  opened :  he  only  delivered  two  cards,  with 
Mr.  Henry  Foker  engraved  upon  them,  to  Jeames,  in  a  speechless 
agony.  Jeames  received  the  tickets,  bowing  his  powdered  head.  The 
varnished  doors  closed  upon  him.  The  beloved  object  was  as  far  as 
ever  from  him,  though  so  near.  He  thought  he  heard  the  tones  of  a 
piano  and  of  a  siren  singing,  coming  from  the  drawing-room  and 
sweeping  over  the  balcony-shrubbery  of  geraniums.  He  would  have 
liked  to  stop  and  listen,  but  it  might  not  be.  "  Drive  to  Tattersall's," 
he  said  to  the  groom,  in  a  voice  smothered  with  emotion, — "and 
bring  my  pony  round,"  he  added,  as  the  man  drove  rapidly  away. 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  that  splendid  barouche  of  Lady 
Clavering's,  which  has  been  inadequately  described  in  a  former 
chapter,  drove  up  to  her  ladyship's  door  just  as  Foker  mounted  the 
pony  which  was  in  waiting  for  him.  He  bestrode  the  fiery  animal, 
and  dodged  about  the  Arch  of  the  Green  Park,  keeping  the  carriage 
well  in  view,  until  he  saw  Lady  Clavering  enter,  and  with  her — ■ 
whose  could  be  that  angel  form,  but  the  enchantress's,  clad  in  a 
sort  of  gossamer,  with  a  pink  bonnet  and  a  light-blue  parasol — but 
Miss  Amoiy  ? 


384  PENDENNIS. 

The  carriage  took  its  fair  owners  to  Madame  Rigodon's  cap  and 
lace  shop,  to  Mrs.  Wolse/s  Berlin  worsted  shop, — who  knows  to  what 
other  resorts  of  female  commerce  ?  Then  it  went  and  took  ices  at 
Hunter's,  for  Lady  Clavering  was  somewhat  florid  in  her  tastes  and 
amusements,  and  not  only  liked  to  go  abroad  in  the  most  showy 
carriage  in  London,  but  that  the  public  should  see  her  in  it  too.  And 
50,  in  a  white  bonnet  with  a  yellow  feather,  she  ate  a  large  pink  ice  in 
the  sunshine  before  Hunters  door,  till  Foker  on  his  pony,  and  the  red- 
jacket  who  accompanied  him,  were  almost  tired  of  dodging. 

Then  at  last  she  made  her  way  into  the  Park,  and  the  rapid  Foker 
made  his  dash  forward.  What  to  do  ?  Just  to  get  a  nod  of  recognition 
from  Miss  Amor>-  and  her  mother;  to  cross  them  a  half-dozen  times 
in  the  drive ;  to  watch  and  ogle  them  from  the  other  side  of  the  ditch, 
where  the  horsemen  assemble  when  the  band  plays  in  Kensington 
Gardens.  What  is  the  use  of  looking  at  a  woman  in  a  pink  bonnet 
across  a  ditch  ?  What  is  the  earthly  good  to  be  got  out  of  a  nod  of 
the  head  ?  Strange  that  men  will  be  contented  with  such  pleasures,  or 
if  not  contented,  at  least  that  they  will  be  so  eager  in  seeking  them. 
Not  one  word  did  Harry,  he  so  fluent  of  conversation  ordinarily, 
exchange  with  his  charmer  on  that  day.  Mutely  he  beheld  her  return 
to  her  carriage,  and  drive  away  among  rather  ironical  salutes  from  the 
young  men  in  the  Park.  One  said  that  the  Indian  widow  was  making 
the  paternal  rupees  spin  rapidly ;  another  said  that  she  ought  to  have 
burned  herself  alive,  and  left  the  money  to  her  daughter.  This  one 
asked  who  Clavering  was  ? — and  old  Tom  Eales,  who  knew  everj-body, 
and  never  missed  a  day  in  the  Park  on  his  grey  cob,  kindly  said  that 
Clavering  had  come  into  an  estate  over  head  and  heels  in  mortgage : 
that  there  were  devilish  ugly  stories  about  him  when  he  was  a  young 
man,  and  that  it  was  reported  of  him  that  he  had  a  share  in  a 
gambling-house,  and  had  certainly  shown  the  white  feather  in  his 
regiment.  "  He  plays  still ;  he  is  in  a  hell  every  night  almost," 
Mr.  Eales  added. 

"  I  should  think  so,  since  his  marriage,"  said  a  wag. 

"  He  gives  devilish  good  dinners,"'  said  Foker,  striking  up  for  the 
honour  of  his  host  of  yesterday. 

"  I  daresay,  and  I  daresay  he  doesn't  ask  Eales,''  the  wag  said.  "  I 
say,  Eales,  do  you  dine  at  Clavering's— at  the  Begum's.^" 

"  /  dine  there  ? "  said  Mr.  Eales,  who  would  have  dined  with  Beel- 
zebub if  sure  of  a  good  cook,  and  when  he  came  away,  would  have 
painted  his  host  blacker  than  fate  had  made  him. 

"  You  might,  you  know,  although  you  do  abuse  him  so,"'  continued 
the  wag.  "  They  say  it's  verj-  pleasant.  Clavering  goes  to  sleep  after 
dinner ;  the  Begum  gets  tipsy  with  cherr>--brandy,  and  the  young  lady 
smgs  songs  to  the  young  gentlemen.    She  sings  well,  don't  she,  Fo  ? "' 


PENBElYNIS.  385 

"  Slap  up,"  said  Fo.  "  I  tell  you  what,  Poyntz,  she  sings  like  a 
— what-d'ye-call-'um — you  know  what  I  mean — like  a  meruiaid,  you 
know,  but  that's  not  their  name." 

"  I  never  heard  a  mermaid  sing,"  Mr.  Poyntz,  the  wag,  replied, 
"  Who  ever  heard  a  mermaid  ?   Eales,  you  are  an  old  fellow,  did  you  ?" 

"  Don't  make  a  lark  of  me,  hang  it,  Poyntz,"  said  Foker,  turning 
red,  and  with  tears  almost  in  his  eyes  ;  "  you  know  what  I  mean :  it's 
those  what's-his-names — in  Homer,  you  know.  I  never  said  1  was  a 
good  scholar." 

"And  nobody  ever  said  it  of  you,  my  boy,"  Mr.  Poyntz  remarked; 
and  Foker,  striking  spurs  into  his  pony,  cantered  away  down  Rotten 
Row,  his  mind  agitated  with  various  emotions,  ambitions,  moitifica- 
tions.  He  ivas  sorry  that  he  had  not  been  good  at  his  books  in  early 
life,  that  he  might  have  cut  out  all  those  chaps  who  were  about  her, 
and  who  talked  the  languages,  and  wrote  poetry,  and  painted  pictures 
in  her  album,  and — and  that. — "  What  am  I,"  thought  little  Foker, 
"  compared  to  her  ?  She's  all  soul,  she  is,  and  can  write  poetrj-  or 
compose  music,  as  easy  as  I  could  drink  a  glass  of  beer.  Beer  1 — 
damme,  that's  all  I'm  fit  for,  is  beer.  I  am  a  poor,  ignorant  little 
beggar,  good  for  nothing  but  Foker's  Entire.  I  misspent  my  youth, 
and  used  to  get  the  chaps  to  do  my  exercises.  And  what's  the  con- 
sequences nov/?  O,  Harry  Foker,  what  a  confounded  little  fool  you 
have  been ! " 

As  he  made  this  dreary  soliloquy,  he  had  cantered  out  of  Rotten 
Row  into  the  Park,  and  there  was  on  the  point  of  riding  down  a  large 
old  roomy  family  carriage,  of  which  he  took  no  heed,  when  a  cheery 
voice  cried  out,  "  Harry,  Harry ! "  and  looking  up,  he  beheld  his  aunt, 
the  Lady  Rosherville,  and  two  of  her  daughters,  of  whom  the  one  who 
spoke  was  Harry's  betrothed,  the  Lady  Ann. 

He  started  back  with  a  pale,  scared  look,  as  a  truth,  about  which 
he  had  not  thought  during  the  whole  day,  came  across  him.  T/icn; 
vras  his  fate,  there,  in  the  back  seat  of  that  carriage ! 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Harry  .^  why  are  you  so  pale  ?  You  l.avc 
been  raking  and  smoking  too  much,  you  wicked  boy,"  said  Lady  Ann. 

Foker  said,  "  How  do,  aunt,"  "  How  do,  Ann,"  in  a  perturbed 
manner — muttered  something  about  a  pressing  engagement,— indeed 
he  saw  by  the  Park  clock  that  he  must  have  been  keeping  his  party  in 
the  drag  waiting  for  nearly  an  hour— and  waved  a  good-bye.  The 
little  man  and  the  little  pony  were  out  of  sight  in  an  instant—  the  great 
carriage  rolled  away.  Nobody  inside  was  very  much  interested  about 
his  coming  or  going ;  the  Countess  being  occupied  with  her  spaniel, 
the  Lady  Lucy's  thoughts  and  eyes  being  turned  upon  a  volume  of 
sermons,  and  those  of  Lady  Ann  upon  a  new  novel,  which  the  sisters 
had  just  procured  from  the  library. 

"5 


,^(j  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

CARRIES  THE   READER   BOTH   TO   RICHMOND   AND   GREENWICH. 

I)OOR  Foker  found  the  dinner  at  Richmond  to  be  the  most  drean- 
entertainment  upon  which  ever  mortal  man  wasted  his  guineas. 
"  I  wonder  how  the  deuce  I  could  ever  have  liked  these  people,"  he 
tliought  in  his  own  mind.  "Why,  I  can  see  the  crow's-feet  under 
Rougemont's  eyes,  and  the  paint  on  her  cheeks  is  laid  on  as  thick  as 
Clown's  in  a  pantomime!  The  way  in  which  that  Pinckney  talks 
slang,  is  quite  disgusting.  1  hate  chaff  in  a  woman.  And  old  Col- 
chicum  !  that  old  Col,  coming  down  here  in  his  brougham,  with  his 
coronet  on  it,  and  sitting  bodkin  between  Mademoiselle  Coralie  and 
her  mother!  It's  too  bad.  An  English  peer,  and  a  horse-rider  of 
Frarconi's! — It  won't  do;  by  Jove,  it  won't  do.  I  ain"t  proud;  but  it 
will  not  do!" 

"  Twopence-halfpenny  for  your  thoughts,  Fokey  ! "  cried  out  Miss 
Rougemont,  taking  her  cigar  from  her  truly  vermilion  lips,  as  she 
beheld  the  young  fellow  lost  in  thought,  seated  at  the  head  of  his  table, 
amidst  melting  ices,  and  cut  pine-apples,  and  bottles  full  and  empty, 
and  cigar-ashes  scattered  on  fruit,  and  the  ruins  of  a  dessert  which  had 
no  pleasure  for  him. 

"  Does  Foker  ever  think  ? "  drawled  out  Mr.  Poyntz.  "  Foker,  here 
is  a  considerable  sum  of  money  offered  by  a  fair  capitalist  at  this  end 
of  the  table  for  the  present  emanations  of  your  valuable  and  acute 
intellect,  old  boy ! " 

"  What  the  deuce  is  that  Poyntz  a  talking  about  ?  "  Miss  Pinckney 
asked  of  her  neighbour.  "  I  hate  him.  He's  a  drawlin',  sneerin' 
beast." 

"  What  a  droll  of  a  little  man  is  that  little  Fokare,  my  lor,"  Made- 
moiselle Coralie  said,  in  her  own  language,  and  with  the  rich  twang 
of  that  sunny  Gascony  in  which  her  swarthy  cheeks  and  bright  black 
eyes  had  got  their  fire.  "  What  a  droll  of  a  man  !  He  does  not  look 
to  have  twenty  years." 

"  I  wish  I  were  of  his  age,"  said  the  venerable  Colchicum,  with  a 
sigh,  as  he  inclined  his  purple  face  towards  a  large  goblet  of  claret. 

"  Cte  Jeunesse.  Penh  /  je  m'en  fiche"  said  Madame  Brack, 
Coralie's  mamma,  taking   a  great  pinch  out  of  Lord    Colchicum's 


PENDENA'IS.  3S7 

delicate  gold  snuff-box.  "  Je  n'aime  que  les  homines  fails,  moi. 
Comtne  milor.  Coralie .'  n'est-ce  pas  que  tu  n'aimes  que  les  homines 
fails,  ma  bichelle  ?  " 

My  lord  said,  with  a  grin,  "  You  flatter  me,  Madame  Brack." 

"  TaiseZ'Vous,  manianj  vous  lieles  qu'une  bele,"  Coralie  cried,  with 
a  shrug  of  her  robust  shoulders ;  upon  which,  my  lord  said  that  she 
did  not  flatter  at  any  rate ;  and  pocketed  his  snuff-box,  not  desirous 
that  Ma'dame  Brack's  dubious  fingers  should  plunge  too  frequently 
into  his  Mackabaw. 

There  is  no  need  to  give  a  prolonged  detail  of  the  animated  con- 
versation which  ensued  during  the  rest  of  the  banquet ;  a  conversation 
which  would  not  much  edify  the  reader.  And  it  is  scarcely  necessary 
to  say,  that  all  ladies  of  the  corps  de  danse  are  not  like  Miss  Pinckney, 
any  more  than  that  all  peers  resemble  that  illustrious  member  of  their 
order,  the  late  lamented  Viscount  Colchicum. 

Mr.  Foker  drove  his  lovely  guests  home  to  Brompton  in  the  drag 
that  night ;  but  he  was  quite  thoughtful  and  gloomy  during  the  whole 
of  the  little  journey  from  Richmond;  neither  listening  to  the  jokes 
of  the  friends  behind  him  and  on  the  box  by  his  side,  nor  enlivening 
them,  as  was  his  wont,  by  his  own  facetious  sallies.  And  when  the 
ladies  whom  he  had  conveyed  alighted  at  the  door  of  their  house, 
and  asked  their  accomplished  coachman  whether  he  would  not  step 
in  and  take  something  to  drink,  he  declined  with  so  melancholy  an 
air,  that  they  supposed  that  the  Governor  and  he  had  had  a  difference, 
or  that  some  calamity  had  befallen  him;  and  he  did  not  tell  these 
people  what  the  cause  of  his  grief  was,  but  left  Mesdames  Rougemont 
and  Pinckney,  unheeding  the  cries  of  the  latter,  who  hung  over  her 
balcony  like  Jezebel,  and  called  out  to  him  to  ask  hun  to  give  another 
party  soon. 

He  sent  the  drag  home  under  the  guidance  of  one  of  the  grooms, 
and  went  on  foot  himself;  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  plunged  in 
thought.  The  stars  and  moon  shining  tranquilly  over  head,  looked 
down  upon  Mr.  Foker  that  night,  as  he  in  his  turn  sentimentally 
regarded  them.  And  he  went  and  gazed  upwards  at  the  house 
in  Grosvenor  Place,  and  at  the  windows  which  he  supposed  to  be 
those  of  the  beloved  object  ;  and  he  moaned  and  he  sighed  in  a 
way  piteous  and  surprising  to  witness,  which  Policeman  X  did,  who 
informed  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  people,  as  they  took  the  refreshment 
of  beer  on  the  coach-box  at  the  neighbouring  public-house,  after 
bringing  home  their  lady  from  the  French  play,  that  there  had  been 
another  chap  hanging  about  the  premises  that  evening— a  little  chap, 
dressed  like  a  swell. 

And  now,  with  that  perspicuity  and  ingenuity  and  enterprise  which 
only  belongs  to  a  certain  passion,  Mr.  Foker  began  to  dodge  Miss 


jSS  FEXDEXNIS. 

Ainon'  through  London,  r.nd  to  appear  wherever  he  could  meet  her. 
If  Lady  Clavering  went  to  the  French  play,  where  her  ladyship  had  a 
box,  .Mr.  Fokcr,  whose  knowledge  of  the  language,  as  we  have  heard, 
was  not  conspicuous,  appeared  in  a  stall.  He  found  out  where  her 
enf'agements  were  (it  is  possible  that  Anatole,  his  man,  was  acquainted 
with  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  gentleman,  and  so  got  a  sight  of  her 
ladyship's  engagement-book),  and  at  many  of  these  evening  parties 
Mr.  Foker  made  his  appearance — to  the  surprise  of  the  world,  and  of 
his  mother  especially,  whom  he  ordered  to  apply  for  cards  to  these 
parties,  for  which  until  now  he  had  shown  a  supreme  contempt.  He 
told  the  pleased  and  unsuspicious  lady  that  he  went  to  parties  because 
it  was  right  for  him  to  see  the  world :  he  told  her  that  he  went  to  the 
French  play  because  he  wanted  to  perfect  himself  in  the  language,  and 
there  was  no  such  good  lesson  as  a  comedy  or  vaudeville ; — and  when 
one  night  the  astonished  Lady  Agnes  saw  him  stand  up  and  dance, 
and  complimented  him  upon  his  elegance  and  activity,  the  mendacious 
little  rogue  asserted  that  he  had  learned  to.  dance  in  Paris,  whereas 
Anatole  knew  that  his  young  master  used  to  go  off  privily  to  an 
academy  in  Brewer  Street,  and  study  there  for  some  hours  in  the 
morning.  The  casino  of  our  modern  days  was  not  invented,  or  was 
in  its  infancy  as  yet ;  and  gentlemen  of  Mr.  Fokers  time  had  not  the 
facihties  of  acquiring  the  science  of  dancing  which  are  enjoyed  by  our 
present  youth. 

Old  Pendennis  seldom  missed  going  to  church.  He  considered  it 
to  be  his  duty  as  a  gentleman  to  patronise  the  institution  of  public 
worship,  and  that  it  was  a  correct  thing  to  be  seen  at  church  of  a 
Sunday.  One  day,  it  chanced  that  he  and  Arthur  went  thither 
together  :  the  latter,  who  was  nov\'  in  high  favour,  had  been  to 
breakfast  with  his  uncle,  from  whose  lodging  they  walked  across 
the  Park  to  a  church  not  far  from  Belgrave  Square.  There  was  a 
charity  sermon  at  Saint  James's,  as  the  Major  knew  by  the  bills 
posted  on  the  pillars  of  his  parish  church,  which  probably  caused 
him,  for  he  was  a  thrifty  man,  to  forsake  it  for  that  day:  besides, 
he  had  other  views  for  himself  and  Pen.  "  We  will  go  to  church,  sir, 
across  the  Park;  and  then,  begad,  we  will  go  to  the  Claverings'  house, 
and  ask  them  for  lunch  in  a  friendly  way.  Lady  Clavering  likes  to  be 
asked  for  lunch,  and  is  uncommonly  kind  and  monstrous  hospitable."' 

"  I  met  them  at  dinner  last  week,  at  Lady  Agnes  Fokers,  sir.''  Pen 
said,  "  and  the  Begum  was  very  kind  indeed.  So  she  was  in  the  country : 
so  she  is  everywhere.  But  I  share  your  opinion  about  Miss  Amory ; 
one  of  your  opinions,  that  is,  uncle,  for  you  were  changing  the  last  time 
we  spoke  about  her."' 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  her  now  ?"  the  elder  said. 

"  I  think  her  the  most   confounded  little  flirt  in  London."'  Pen 


PENDENNIS.  389 

answered,  laughing.  "  She  made  a  tremendous  assault  upon  Harry 
Foker,  who  sat  next  to  her ;  and  to  whom  she  gave  all  the  talk,  though 
I  took  her  down." 

'■  Bah !  Henry  Foker  is  engaged  to  his  cousin,  all  the  world  knows 
it :  not  a  bad  coup  of  Lady  Rosherville's,  that.  I  should  say,  that  the 
young  man  at  his  father's  death,  and  old  Mr.  Poker's  life's  devilish 
bad :  you  know  he  had  a  fit,  at  Arthur's  last  year ;  I  should  say,  that 
young  Foker  won't  have  less  than  fourteen  thousand  a  year  from  the 
brewery,  besides  Logwood  and  the  Norfolk  property.  I've  no  pride 
about  me,  Pen.  I  like  a  man  of  birth  certainly,  but  dammy,  I  like  a 
brewery  which  brings  in  a  man  fourteen  thousand  a  year ;  hey.  Pen  ? 
Ha,  ha,  that's  the  sort  of  man  for  me.  And  I  recommend  you,  now 
that  you  are  lanced  in  the  world,  to  stick  to  fellows  of  that  sort ;  to 
fellows  who  have  a  stake  in  the  country,  begad." 

"  Foker  sticks  to  me,  sir,"  Arthur  answered.  '"  He  has  been  at  our 
chambers  several  times  lately.  He  has  asked  me  to  dinner.  We  are 
almost  as  great  friends  as  we  used  to  be  in  our  youth :  and  his  talk  is 
about  Blanche  Amory  from  morning  till  night.  I'm  sure  he's  sweet 
upon  her." 

"  I'm  sure  he  is  engaged  to  his  cousin,  and  that  they  will  keep  the 
young  man  to  his  bargain,"  said  the  Major.  "  The  marriages  in  these 
families  are  affairs  of  state.  Lady  Agnes  was  made  to  marry  old 
Foker  by  the  late  Lord,  although  she  was  notoriously  partial  to  her 
cousin  who  was  killed  at  Albuera  afterwards,  and  who  saved  her  life 
out  of  the  lake  at  Drummington.  I  remember  Lady  Agnes,  sir,  an 
e.Kceedingly  fine  woman.  But  what  did  she  do  ?— of  course  she  mar- 
ried her  father's  man.  Why,  Mr.  Foker  sate  for  Drummington  till 
the  Reform  Bill,  and  paid  dev'lish  well  for  his  seat,  too.  And  you 
may  depend  upon  this,  sir,  that  Foker  senior,  who  is  a  parvenu,  and 
loves  a  great  man,  as  all  parvenus  do,  has  ambitious  views  for  his 
son  as  well  as  himself,  and  that  your  friend  Harry  must  do  as  his 
father  bids  him.  Lord  bless  you  !  I've  known  a  hundred  cases  of  love 
in  young  men  and  women  :  hey.  Master  Arthur,  do  you  take  me  ? 
They  kick,  sir,  they  resist,  they  make  a  deuce  of  a  riot  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  but  they  end  by  listening  to  reason,  begad." 

"  Blanche  is  a  dangerous  girl,  sir,"  Pen  said.  "  I  was  smitten  with  her 
myself  once,  and  very  far  gone,  too,  he  added  :  "  but  that  is  years  ago." 

"  Were  you  ?  How  far  did  it  go  ?  Did  she  return  it  ?"  asked  the 
Major,  looking  hard  at  Pen. 

Pen,  with  a  laugh,  said  "  that  at  one  time  he  did  think  he  was 
pretty  well  in  Miss  Amory's  good  graces.  But  my  mother  did  not 
like  her,  and  the  affair  went  off."  Pen  did  not  think  it  fit  to  tell  his 
uncle  al'l  the  particulars  of  that  courtship  which  had  passed  between 
himself  and  the  young  lady. 


^^  PEXDENNIS. 

"  A  man  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse,  Arthur,"  the  Major  said, 
still  looking  queerly  at  his  nephew. 

'•  Her  birth,  sir  ;  her  father  was  the  mate  of  a  ship,  they  say  :  and 
she  has  not  money  enough,"  objected  Pen,  in  a  dandyfied  manner. 
"  What's  ten  thousand  pound  and  a  girl  bred  up  like  her  ? "' 

'•  You  use  my  own  words,  and  it  is  all  very  well.  But,  I  tell  you 
in  confidence.  Pen, — in  strict  honour,  mind,— that  it's  my  belief  she 
has  a  devilish  deal  more  than  ten  thousand  pound  :  and  from  what  I 
saw  of  her  the  other  day,  and — and  have  heard  of  her — I  should  say 
she  was  a  devilish  accomplished,  clever  girl :  and  would  make  a  good 
wife  with  a  sensible  husband." 

"  How  do  you  know  about  her  money  ? "  Pen  asked,  smiling. 
"  You  seem  to  have  information  about  everybody,  and  to  know  about 
all  the  town." 

"  I  do  know  a  few  things,  sir,  and  I  don't  tell  all  I  know.  Mark 
that,"  the  uncle  replied.  '"  And  as  for  that  charming  Miss  Amor>-, — 
for  charming,  begad  !  she  is, — if  I  saw  her  Mrs.  Arthur  Pendennis,  I 
should  neither  be  sorrj'  nor  surprised,  begad  !  and  if  you  object  to 
ten  thousand  pound,  what  would  you  say,  sir,  to  thirty,  or  forty,  or 
fifty?"  and  the  Major  looked  still  more  knowingly,  and  stiU  harder 
at  Pen. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  said  to  his  godfather  and  namesake,  '"make  her 
!Mrs.  Arthur  Pendennis.     You  can  do  it  as  well  as  I." 

"  Psha  !  you  are  laughing  at  me,  sir,"  the  other  replied,  rather 
peevishly,  "and  you  ought  not  to  laugh  so  near  a  church  gate. 
Here  we  are  at  St.  Benedict's.  They  say  Mr.  Oriel  is  a  beautiful 
preacher." 

Indeed,  the  bells  were  tolling,  the  people  were  trooping  into  the 
handsome  church,  the  carriages  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  lordly 
quarter  poured  forth  their  pretty  loads  of  devotees,  in  whose  company 
Pen  and  his  uncle,  ending  their  edifying  conversation,  entered  the 
fane.  I  do  not  know  Avhether  other  people  carry  their  worldly  affairs 
to  the  church  door.  Arthur,  who,  from  habitual  reverence  and  feeling, 
was  always  more  than  respectful  in  a  place  of  worship,  thought  of  the 
incongruity  of  their  talk,  perhaps  ;  whilst  the  old  gentleman  at  his 
side  was  utterly  unconscious  of  any  such  contrast.  His  hat  was 
brushed  :  his  wig  was  trim  :  his  neckcloth  was  perfectly  tied.  He 
looked  at  everj'  soul  in  the  congregation,  it  is  true  :  the  bald  heads 
and  the  bonnets,  the  flowers  and  the  feathers  :  but  so  demurely,  that 
he  hardly  lifted  up  his  eyes  from  his  book— from  his  book  which  he 
could  not  read  without  glasses.  As  for  Pen's  gravity,  it  was  sorely 
put  to  the  test  when,  upon  looking  by  chance  towards  the  seats  where 
the  ser\'ants  were  collected,  he  spied  out,  by  the  side  of  a  demure 
gentleman  in  plush,  Henry  Foker,  Esquire,  who  had  discovered  this 


FENDENNIS.  391 

place  of  devotion.  Following  the  direction  of  Harry's  eye,  which 
strayed  a  good  deal  from  his  book,  Pen  found  that  it  alighted  upon  a 
yellow  bonnet  and  a  pink  one  :  and  that  these  bonnets  were  on  the 
heads  of  Lady  Clavering  and  Blanche  Amory.  If  Pen's  uncle  is  not 
the  only  man  who  has  talked  about  his  worldly  affairs  up  to  the 
church  door,  is  poor  Harry  Foker  the  only  one  who  has  brought  his 
worldly  love  into  the  aisle  ? 

When  the  congregation  issued  forth  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
service,  Foker  was  out  amongst  the  first,  but  Pen  came  up  with  him 
presently,  as  he  was  hankering  about  the  entrance,  which  he  was 
unwilling  to  leave,  until  my  lady's  barouche,  with  the  bewigged 
coachman,  had  borne  away  its  mistress  and  her  daughter  from  their 
devotions. 

When  the  two  ladies  came  out,  they  found  together  the  Pendenniscs, 
uncle  and  nephew,  and  Harry  Foker,  Esquire,  sucking  the  crook  of 
his  stick,  standing  there  in  the  sunshine.  To  see  and  to  ask  to  eat 
were  simultaneous  with  the  good-natured  Begum,  and  she  invited  the 
three  gentlemen  to  luncheon  straightway. 

Blanche,  too,  was  particularly  gracious.  "  O  !  do  come,"  she  said 
to  Arthur,  "  if  you  are  not  too  great  a  man.  I  want  so  to  talk  to  you 
about — but  we  mustn't  say  what,  here,  you  know.  What  would  Mr. 
Oriel  say  ? "  And  the  young  devotee  jumped  into  the  carriage  after 
her  mamma. — "  I've  read  every  word  of  it.  It's  adorable"  she  added, 
still  addressing  herself  to  Pen. 

"  I  know  ivho  is,"  said  Mr.  Arthur,  making  rather  a  pert  bow. 

"  What's  the  row  about?"  asked  Mr.  Foker,  rather  puzzled. 

"I  suppose  Miss  Clavering  means  'Walter  Lorraine,'"  said  the 
Major,  looking  knowing,  and  nodding  at  Pen. 

"  I  suppose  so,  sir.  There  was  a  famous  review  in  the  '  Pall  AI.iIl ' 
this  morning.  It  was  Warrington's  doing  though,  and  I  must  not  be 
too  proud." 

"  A  review  in  Pall  Mall  } — Walter  Lorraine .''  What  the  doosc  do 
you  mean  ? "  Foker  asked.  "  Walter  Lorraine  died  of  the  measles, 
poor  little  beggar,  when  we  were  at  Grey  Friars.  I  remember  his 
mother  coming  up." 

"  You  are  not  a  literary  man,  Foker,"  Pen  said,  laughing,  and 
hooking  his  arm  into  his  friend's.  "  You  must  know  I  have  been 
writing  a  novel,  and  some  of  the  papers  have  spoken  very  well  of  it. 
Perhaps  you  don't  read  the  Sunday  papers?" 

"  I  read  '  Bell's  Life '  regular,  old  boy,"  Mr.  Foker  answered :  at 
which  Pen  laughed  again,  and  the  three  gentlemen  proceeded  in  great 
good  humour  to  Lady  Clavering's  house. 

The  subject  of  the  novel  was  resumed  after  luncheon  by  Miss 
Amory,  who  indeed  loved  poets  and  men  of  letters  if  she  loved  any- 


^g,  rEXDJCiWYIS. 

thino,  and  was  sincerely  an  artist  in  feeling.  '-Some  of  the  passages 
in  the  book  made  me  cry,  positively  they  did,"  she  said. 

Pen  said,  with  some  fatuity,  "  I  am  happy  to  ihink  I  have  a  part 
of  7W  larmeSj'Miss  Blanche"— And  the  Major  (who  had  not  read 
more  than  six  pages  of  Pen's  book)  put  on  his  sanctified  look,  saying. 
"  Yes,  there  are  some  passages  quite  affecting,  mons'ous  affecting : 
and," — "  O,  if  it  makes  you  cr>'," — Lady  Amon.'  declared  she  would 
not  read  it,  "that  she  wouldn't." 

"  Don't,  mamma,"  Blanche  said,  with  a  French  shioig  of  her 
shoulders ;  and  then  she  fell  into  a  rhapsody  about  the  book,  about 
the  snatclics  of  poetry  interspersed  in  it,  about  the  two  heroines, 
Leonora  and  Neaera;  about  the  two  heroes,  Walter  Lorraine  and  his 
rival  the  young  Duke — "and  what  good  company  you  introduce  us 
to,"  said  the  young  lady,  archly,  "  quel  ion  !  How  much  of  your  life 
have  you  passed  at  court,  and  are  you  a  prime  minister's  son,  Mr. 
Arthur?" 

Pen  began  to  laugh — "  It  is  as  cheap  for  a  novelist  to  create  a 
Duke  as  to  make  a  Baronet,"  he  said.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  a  secret, 
Miss  Amory  ?  I  promoted  all  my  characters  at  the  request  of  the 
publisher.  The  young  Duke  was  only  a  young  Baron  when  the  novel 
was  first  v/ritten ;  his  false  friend,  the  Viscount,  was  a  simple  com- 
moner, and  so  on  with  all  the  characters  of  the  storj-." 

"  Wliat  a  wicked,  satirical,  pert  young  man  you  hav^e  become ! 
Couune  vov..s  voila  forme  P'  said  the  young  lady.  "  How  difterent  from 
Arthur  Pendennis  of  the  country  !  Ah !  I  think  I  like  Arthur  Pen- 
dcnnis  of  the  country  best,  though ! "  And  she  gave  him  the  full 
benefit  of  her  eyes, — both  of  the  fond  appealing  glance  into  his  own, 
and  of  the  modest  look  downwards  towards  the  carpet,  which  showed 
off  her  dark  eyelids  and  long  fringed  lashes. 

Pen  of  course  protested  that  he  had  not  changed  in  the  least,  to 
which  the  young  lady  replied  by  a  tender  sigh ;  and  thinking  that  she 
had  done  quite  enough  to  make  Arthur  happy  or  miserable  (as  the 
case  might  be),  she  proceeded  to  cajole  his  companion,  Mr.  Harry 
Foker,  v/ho  during  the  literary  conversation  had  sate  silently  imbibing 
the  head  of  his  cane,  and  wishing  he  was  a  clever  chap  like  that  Pen. 

If  the  Major  thought  that  by  telling  Miss  Amor)-  of  Mr.  Poker's 
engagement  to  his  cousin,  Lady  Ann  Milton  (which  information  the 
old  gentleman  neatly  conveyed  to  the  girl  as  he  sate  by  her  side  at 
luncheon  below  stairs), — if,  w^e  say,  the  Major  thought  that  the  know- 
ledge of  this  fact  would  prevent  Blanche  from  paying  any  further 
attention  to  the  young  heir  of  Poker's  Entire,  he  was  entirely  mistaken. 
She  became  only  the  more  gracious  to  Foker :  she  praised  him,  and 
everything  belonging  to  him ;  she  praised  his  mamma ;  she  praised 
the  pony  v/hich  he  rode  in  the  Park;  she  praised  the  lovely  breloques 


PENDENNIS.  393 

or  gimcracks  whicn  the  young  gentleman  wore  at  his  watch-chain, 
and  that  dear  little  darling  of  a  cane,  and  those  dear  little  delicious 
monkeys'  heads  with  ruby  eyes,  which  ornamented  Harry's  shirt,  and 
formed  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat.  And  then,  having  praised  and 
coaxed  the  weak  youth  until  he  blushed  and  tingled  with  pleasure, 
and  until  Pen  thought  she  really  had  gone  quite  far  enough,  she  took 
another  theme. 

"  I  am  afraid  Mr.  Foker  is  a  very  sad  young  man,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing round  to  Pen. 

"  He  does  not  look  so,"  Pen  answered  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  mean  we  have  heard  sad  stories  about  him.  Haven't  we, 
mamma?  What  was  Mr.  Poyntz  saying  here,  the  other  day,  about 
that  party  at  Richmond  1  O  you  naughty  creature ! "  But  hei^e, 
seeing  that  Harry's  countenance  assumed  a  great  expression  of  alarm, 
while  Pen's  wore  a  look  of  amusement,  she  turned  to  the  latter  and 
said,  "  I  believe  you  are  just  as  bad  :  I  believe  you  would  have  liked 
to  have  been  there, — wouldn't  you  ?  I  know  you  would  :  yes — and  so 
should  I." 

"  Lor',  Blanche  ! "  mamma  cried. 

"  Well,  I  would.  I  never  saw  an  actress  in  my  life.  I  would 
give  anything  to  know  one ;  for  I  adore  talent.  And  I  adore  Rich- 
mond, that  I  do ;  and  I  adore  Greenwich,  and  I  say,  I  should  like  to 
go  there." 

"  Why  should  not  we  three  bachelors,"  the  Major  here  broke  out, 
gallantly,  and  to  his  nephew's  special  surprise,  "  beg  these  ladies  to 
honour  us  with  their  company  at  Greenwich.?  Is  Lady  Clavering  to 
go  on  for  ever  being  hospitable  to  us,  and  may  we  make  no  return.-' 
Speak  for  yourselves,  young  men,— eh,  begad !  Here  is  my  nephew, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  money — his  pockets  full,  begad  !  and  Mr.  Henry 
Foker,  who,  as  I  have  heard  say,  is  pretty  well  to  do  in  the  world, — 
how  is  your  lovely  cousin,  Lady  Ann,  Mr.  Foker.' — here  arc  these  two 
young  ones, — and  they  allow  an  old  fellow  like  me  to  speak.  Lady 
Clavering,  will  you  do  me  the  favour  to  be  my  guest  ?  and  Miss  Blanche 
shall  be  Arthur's  if  she  will  be  so  good." 

"  Oh,  delightful ! "  cried  Blanche. 

"  I  like  a  bit  of  fun  too,"  said  Lady  Clavering ;  "  and  we  will  take 
some  day  when  Sir  Francis — " 

"  When  Sir  Francis  dines  out, — yes,  mamma,"  the  daughter  said, 
"  it  will  be  charming." 

And  a  charming  day  it  was.  The  dinner  was  ordered  at  Green- 
wich, and  Foker,  though  he  did  not  invite  Miss  Amory,  had  some 
delicious  opportunities  of  conversation  with  her  during  the  repast,  and 
afterwards  on  the  balcony  of  their  room  at  the  hotel,  and  again  during 
the  drive  home  in  her  ladyship's  barouche.     Pen  came  down  with  his 


394  PENDENNIS. 

uncle,  in  Sir  Hugh  Trumpington's  brougham,  which  the  Major  borrowed 
for  the  occasion.  "  I  am  an  old  soldier,  begad,"  he  said,  "  and  I  learned 
in  early  life  to  make  myself  comfortable." 

And,  being  an  old  soldier,  he  allowed  the  two  young  men  to  pay 
for  the  dinner  between  them,  and  all  the  way  home  in  the  brougham 
he  rallied  Pen  about  Miss  Amory's  evident  partiality  for  him :  praised 
her  good  looks,  spirits,  and  wit;  and  again  told  Pen,  in  the  strictest 
confidence,  that  she  would  be  a  devilish  deal  richer  than  people 
thought. 


PENDENNIS. 


395 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

CONTAINS   A   NOVEL   INCIDENT. 

SOME  account  has  been  given,  in  a  former  part  of  this  story,  how 
Mr.  Pen,  during  his  residence  at  home,  after  his  defeat  at  Ox- 
bridge, had  occupied  himself  with  various  Hterary  compositions,  and 
amongst  other  works,  had  written  the  greater  part  of  a  novel.  This 
book,  written  under  the  influence  of  his  youthful  embarrassments, 
amatory  and  pecuniary,  was  of  a  very  fierce,  gloomy,  and  passionate 
sort, — the  Byronic  despair,  the  Wertherian  despondency,  the  mocking 
bitterness  of  Mephistopheles  of  Faust,  were  all  reproduced  and  deve- 
loped in  the  character  of  the  hero ;  for  our  youth  had  just  been  learning 
the  German  language,  and  imitated,  as  almost  all  clever  lads  do,  his 
favourite  poets  and  writers.  Passages  in  the  volumes  once  so  loved, 
and  now  read  so  seldom,  still  bear  the  mark  of  the  pencil  with  which 
he  noted  them  in  those  days.  Tears  fell  upon  the  leaf  of  the  book, 
perhaps,  or  blistered  the  pages  of  his  manuscript,  as  the  passionate 
young  man  dashed  his  thoughts  down.  If  he  took  up  the  book  after- 
wards, he  had  no  ability  or  wish  to  sprinkle  the  leaves  with  that  early 
dew  of  former  times :  his  pencil  was  no  longer  eager  to  score  its  marks 
of  approval :  but  as  he  looked  over  the  pages  of  his  manuscript,  he 
remembered  what  had  been  the  overflowing  feelings  which  had  caused 
him  to  blot  it,  and  the  pain  which  had  inspired  the  line.  If  the  secret 
history  of  books  could  be  written,  and  the  author's  private  thoughts 
and  meanings  noted  down  alongside  of  his  story,  how  many  insipid 
volumes  would  become  interesting,  and  dull  tales  excite  the  reader ! 
Many  a  bitter  smile  passed  over  Pen's  face  as  he  read  his  novel,  and 
recalled  the  time  and  feelings  which  gave  it  birth.  How  pompous 
some  of  the  grand  passages  appeared ;  and  how  weak  others  were  in 
which  he  thought  he  had  expressed  his  full  heart !  This  page  was 
imitated  from  a  then  favourite  author,  as  he  could  now  clearly  see  and 
confess,  though  he  had  believed  himself  to  be  writing  originally  then. 
As  he  mused  over  certain  lines  he  recollected  the  place  and  hour 
where  he  wrote  them:  the  ghost  of  the  dead  feeling  came  back  as  he 
mused,  and  he  blushed  to  review  the  faint  image.  And  what  meant 
those  blots  on  the  page  ?  As  you  come  in  the  desert  to  ground  where 
camels'  hoofs  are  marked  in  the  clay,  and  traces  of  withered  herbage 


396  PEN  DENNIS. 

arc  yet  visible,  you  know  that  water  was  there  once :  so  the  place  in  Pen's 
mind  was  no  longer  green,  and  the  fons  lacrymarum  was  dried  up. 

He  used  this  simile  one  morning  to  Warrington,  as  the  latter  sate 
over  his  pipe  and  book,  and  Pen,  with  much  gesticulation,  according 
to  his  wont  when  excited,  and  with  a  bitter  laugh,  thumped  his 
manuscript  down  on  the  table,  making  the  tea-things  rattle,  and  the 
blue  milk  dance  in  the  jug.  On  the  previous  night  he  had  taken 
the  manuscript  out  of  a  long-neglected  chest,  containing  old  shooting- 
jackets,  old  Oxbridge  scribbling  books,  his  old  surpHce,  and  battered 
cap  and  gown,  and  other  memorials  of  youth,  school,  and  home.  He 
read  in  the  volume  in  bed  until  he  fell  asleep,  for  the  commencement 
of  the  tale  was  somewhat  dull,  and  he  had  come  home  tired  from  a 
London  evening  party. 

'•  By  Jove ! "  said  Pen,  thumping  down  his  papers,  "  when  I  think 
that  these  were  written  only  a  very  few  years  ago,  I  am  ashamed  of 
my  memory.  I  wrote  this  when  I  believed  myself  to  be  eternally  in 
love  with  that  little  coquette,  Miss  Amory.  I  used  to  carry  down 
verses  to  her,  and  put  them  into  the  hollow  of  a  tree,  and  dedicate 
them  '  Amori.' "' 

"  That  was  a  sweet  little  play  upon  words,"  Warrington  remarked, 
with  a  puff.  "Amory — Amori.  It  showed  profound  scholarship. 
Let  us  hear  a  bit  of  the  rubbish."  And  he  stretched  over  from  his 
easy  chair,  and  caught  hold  of  Pen's  manuscript  with  the  fire-tongs, 
which  he  was  just  using  in  order  to  put  a  coal  into  his  pipe.  Thus, 
in  possession  of  the  volume,  he  began  to  read  out  from  the  "Leaves 
from  the  Life-book  of  Walter  Lorraine." 

"  '  False  as  thou  art  beautiful !  heartless  as  thou  art  fair  I  mockery- 
of  Passion!'  Walter  cried,  addressing  Leonora:  '  what  evil  spirit  hath 
sent  thee  to  torture  me  so  ?     O  Leonora  *  *  *  '  " 

'■  Cut  that  part  out,"  cried  Pen,  making  a  dash  at  the  book,  which, 
however,  his  comrade  would  not  release.  "  Well !  don't  read  it  out, 
at  any  rate.  That's  about  my  other  flame,  my  first — Lady  Mirabel 
that  is  now.  I  saw  her  last  night  at  Lady  Whiston's.  She  asked  me 
to  a  party  at  her  house,  and  said  that,  as  old  friends,  we  ought  to  meet 
oftener.  She  has  been  seeing  me  any  time  these  two  years  in  town, 
and  never  thought  of  inviting  me  before ;  but  seeing  Wenham  talking 
to  me,  and  Monsieur  Dubois,  the  French  literary  man,  who  had  a 
dozen  orders  on,  and  might  have  passed  for  a  Marshal  of  France,  she 
condescended  to  invite  me.  The  Claverings  are  to  be  there  on  the 
same  evening.  Won't  it  be  exciting  to  meet  one's  two  flames  at 
the  same  table  ? " 

"  Two  fl.ames !— two  heaps  of  burnt-out  cinders,"  Warrington  said. 
"  Are  both  the  beauties  in  this  book  ?" 

"  Both,  or  something  like  them,"  Pen  said.    '•  Leonora,  who  mairies 


FENDEXNIS.  397 

the  Duke,  is  the  Fotheringay.  I  drew  the  Duke  from  Magnus  Charters, 
with  whom  1  was  at  Oxfcffd ;  it's  a  Httle  Hke  him ;  and  Miss  Amory  is 
Neasra.  By  gad,  Warrington,  I  did  love  that  first  woman  !  I  thought 
of  her  as  I  walked  home  from  Lady  Whiston's  in  the  moonlight ;  and 
the  whole  early  scenes  came  back  to  me  as  if  they  had  been  yesterday. 
And  when  I  got  home,  I  pulled  out  the  story  which  I  wrote  about  her 
and  the  other  three  years  ago :  do  you  know,  outrageous  as  it  is,  it 
has  some  good  stuff  in  it ;  and  if  Bungay  won't  publish  it,  I  think 
Bacon  will." 

"  That's  the  way  of  poets,"  said  Warrington.  "  They  fall  in  love, 
jilt,  or  are  jilted ;  they  sutfer  and  they  cry  out  that  they  suffer  more 
than  any  other  mortals :  and  when  they  have  experienced  feelings 
enough  they  note  them  down  in  a  book,  and  take  the  book  to  market. 
All  poets  are  humbugs,  all  literary  men  are  humbugs ;  directly  a  m.an 
begins  to  sell  his  feelings  for  money  he's  a  humbug.  If  a  poet  gets  a 
pain  in  his  side  from  too  good  a  dinner,  he  bellows  Ai,  Ai,  louder  thr.n 
Prometheus." 

"  I  suppose  a  poet  has  greater  sensibility  than  another  man," 
said  Pen,  with  some  spirit.  "  That  is  what  makes  him  a  poet.  1 
suppose  that  he  sees  and  feels  more  keenly :  it  is  that  which  makes 
him  speak  of  what  he  feels  and  sees.  You  speak  eagerly  enough  in 
your  leading  articles  when  you  espy  a  false  argument  in  an  opponent, 
or  detect  a  quack  in  the  House.  Paley,  who  does  not  care  for  any- 
thing else  in  the  world,  will  talk  for  an  hour  about  a  question  of  law. 
Give  another  the  privilege  which  you  take  yourself,  and  the  free  use  of 
his  faculty,  and  let  him  be  what  nature  has  made  him.  Why  should 
not  a  man  sell  his  sentimental  thoughts  as  well  as  you  your  political 
ideas,  or  Paley  his  legal  knowledge  ?  Each  alike  is  a  matter  of  expe- 
rience and  practice.  It  is  not  money  which  causes  you  to  perceive  a 
fallacy,  or  Paley  to  argue  a  point ;  but  a  natural  or  acquired  aptitude 
for  that  kind  of  truth  :  and  a  poet  sets  down  his  thoughts  and  expe- 
riences upon  paper  as  a  painter  does  a  landscape  or  a  face  upon  canvas, 
to  the  best  of  his  abiUty,  and  according  to  his  particular  gift.  If  ever 
I  think  I  have  the  stuff  in  me  to  write  an  epic,  by  Jove,  I  will  try.  If 
I  only  feel  that  I  am  good  enough  to  crack  a  joke  or  tell  a  story,  I  will 
do  that." 

"  Not  a  bad  speech,  young  one,"  Warrington  said ;  "  but  that  does 
not  prevent  all  poets  from  being  humbugs." 

"What,  Homer,  yEschylus,  Shakspeare  and  all.^" 

"  Their  names  are  not  to  be  breathed  in  the  same  sentence  with  you 
pigmies,"  Warrington  said;  "there  are  men  and  men,  sir." 

"  Well,  Shakspeare  was  a  man  who  wrote  for  money,  just  as  you 
and  I  do,"  Pen  answered;  at  which  Warrington  confounded  his  im- 
pudence, and  resumed  his  pipe  and  his  manuscript. 


3f,8  PENDENNIS. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt,  then,  that  this  document  con- 
tained a  great  deal  of  Pen's  personal  experiences,  and  that  "  Leaves 
from  the  Life-book  of  Walter  Lorraine"  would  never  have  been  written 
but  for  Arthur  Pendennis's  own  private  griefs,  passions,  and  foUies. 
As  we  have  become  acquainted  with  these  in  the  earlier  part  of  his 
biography,  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  make  large  extracts  from  the 
novel  of  "  Walter  Lorraine,"  in  which  the  young  gentleman  had  de- 
picted such  of  them  as  he  thought  were  Hkely  to  interest  the  reader,  or 
were  suitable  for  the  purposes  of  his  storj-. 

Now,  though  he  had  kept  it  in  his  box  for  nearly  half  of  the  period 
during  which,  according  to  the  Horatian  maxim,  a  work  of  art  ought 
to  lie  ripening  (a  maxim,  the  truth  of  which  may,  by  the  way,  be  ques- 
tioned altogether),  ^Ir.  Pen  had  not  buried  his  novel  for  this  time,  in 
order  that  the  work  might  improve,  but  because  he  did  not  know  where 
else  to  bestow  it,  or  had  no  particular  desire  to  see  it.  A  man  who 
thinks  of  putting  away  a  composition  for  ten  years  before  he  shall  give 
it  to  the  world,  or  exercise  his  own  maturer  judgment  upon  it,  had 
best  be  very  sure  of  the  original  strength  and  durability  of  the  work  ; 
otherwise  on  withdrawing  it  from  ics  crj'pt  he  may  find  that,  like  small 
wine,  it  has  lost  what  flavour  it  once  had,  and  is  only  tasteless  when 
opened.  There  are  works  of  all  tastes  and  smacks,  the  small  and  the 
strong,  those  that  improve  by  age,  and  those  that  won't  bear  keeping 
at  all,  but  are  pleasant  at  the  first  draught,  when  they  refresh  and 
sparkle. 

Now  Pen  had  never  any  notion,  even  in  the  time  of  his  youthful 
inexperience  and  fervour  of  imagination,  that  the  storj'  he  was  writing 
was  a  masterpiece  of  composition,  or  that  he  was  the  equal  of  the  great 
authors  whom  he  admired ;  and  when  he  now  reviewed  his  little  per- 
formance, he  was  keenly  enough  alive  to  its  faults,  and  pretty  modest 
regarding  its  merits.  It  was  not  very  good,  he  thought ;  but  it  was  as 
good  as  most  books  of  the  kind  that  had  the  run  of  circulating  libraries 
and  the  career  of  the  season.  He  had  critically  examined  more  than 
one  fashionable  novel  by  the  authors  of  the  day  then  popular,  and  he 
thought  that  his  intellect  was  as  good  as  theirs,  and  that  he  could 
write  the  English  language  as  well  as  those  ladies  or  gentlemen ;  and 
as  he  now  ran  over  his  early  performance,  he  was  pleased  to  find  here 
and  there  passages  exhibiting  both  fancy  and  vigour,  and  traits,  if  not 
of  genius,  of  genuine  passion  and  feeling.  This,  too,  was  Warring- 
ton's verdict,  when  that  severe  critic,  after  half-an-hour's  perusal  of 
the  manuscript,  and  the  consumption  of  a  couple  of  pipes  of  tobacco, 
laid  Pens  book  down,  yawning  portentously.  "  I  can't  read  any  more 
of  that  balderdash  now,"  he  said ;  "  but  it  seems  to  me  there  is  some 
good  stuff  in  it,  Pen,  my  boy.  There's  a  certain  greenness  and  fresh- 
ness in  it  which  I  like  somehow.     The  bloom  disappears  off  the  face 


PENDENNIS.  399 

of  poetry  after  you  begin  to  shave.  You  can't  get  up  that  naturalness 
and  artless  rosy  tint  in  after  days.  Your  cheeks  are  pale,  and  have 
got  faded  by  exposure  to  evening  parties,  and  you  are  obliged  to 
take  curling-irons  and  macassar,  and  the  deuce-knovvs-what  to  your 
whiskers  ;  they  curl  ambrosially,  and  you  are  very  grand  and  genteel, 
and  so  forth ;  but,  ah !  Pen,  the  spring-time  was  the  best." 

"  What  the  deuce  have  my  whiskers  to  do  with  the  subject  in 
hand.^"  Pen  said  (who  perhaps  may  have  been  nettled  by  Warring- 
ton's allusion  to  those  ornaments,  which,  to  say  the  truth,  the  young 
man  coaxed,  and  curled,  and  oiled,  and  perfumed,  and  petted,  in 
rather  an  absurd  manner).  "  Do  you  think  we  can  do  anything  with 
'  Walter  Lorraine  ? '  Shall  we  take  him  to  the  publisher's,  or  make  an 
auto-da-fe  of  him  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  what  is  the  good  of  incremation,"  Warrington  said, 
"  though  I  have  a  great  mind  to  put  him  into  the  fire,  to  punish  your 
atrocious  humbug  and  hypocrisy.  Shall  I  burn  him  indeed  ?  You 
have  much  too  great  a  value  for  him  to  hurt  a  hair  of  his  head." 

"Have  I?  Here  goes,"  said  Pen,  and  "Walter  Lorraine "  went 
oft"  the  table,  and  was  flung  on  to  the  coals.  But  the  fire  having  done 
its  duty  of  boiling  the  young  man's  breakfast-kettle,  had  given  up 
work  for  the  day,  and  had  gone  out,  as  Pen  knew  very  well ;  and 
Warrington,  with  a  scornful  smile,  once  more  took  up  the  manuscript 
with  the  tongs  from  out  of  the  harmless  cinders. 

"  Oh,  Pen,  what  a  humbug  you  are ! "  Warrington  said ;  "  and, 
what  is  worst  of  all,  sir,  a  clumsy  humbug.  I  saw  you  look  to  sec 
that  the  fire  was  out  before  you  sent '  Walter  Lorraine '  behind  the 
bars.  No,  we  won't  burn  him  :  we  will  carry  him  to  the  Egyptians, 
and  sell  him.  We  will  exchange  him  away  for  money,  yea,  for  silver 
and  gold,  and  for  beef  and  for  liquors,  and  for  tobacco  and  for  raiment. 
This  youth  will  fetch  some  price  in  the  market ;  for  he  is  a  comely 
lad,  though  not  over  strong;  but  we  will  fatten  him  up,  and  give  him 
the  bath,  and  curl  his  hair,  and  we  will  sell  him  for  a  hundred  piastres 
to  Bacon  or  to  Bungay.  The  rubbish  is  saleable  enough,  sir ;  and  my 
advice  to  you  is  this :  the  next  time  you  go  home  for  a  holiday,  take 
'  Walter  Lorraine  '  in  your  carpet-bag — give  him  a  more  modern  air, 
prune  away,  though  sparingly,  some  of  the  green  passages,  and  add  a 
little  comedy,  and  cheerfulness,  and  satire,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
then  we'll  take  him  to  market,  and  sell  him.  The  book  is  not  a 
v/onder  of  wonders,  but  it  will  do  very  well." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Warrington  ?"  said  Pen,  delighted,  for  tliis  was 
great  praise  from  his  cynical  friend. 

"  You  silly  young  fool !  I  think  it's  uncommonly  clever,"  Warring- 
ton said,  in  a  kind  voice.  "  So  do  you,  sir."  And  with  the  manuscript 
v/hich  he  held  in  his  hand  he  playfully  struck  Pen  on  the  cheek. 


400  PENDENNIS. 

That  part  of  Pen"s  countenance  turned  as  red  as  it  had  ever  done  in 
the  earhest  days  of  his  blushes:  he  grasped  the  others  hand  and  said. 
"  Thank  you,  Warrington,"  with  all  his  might ;  and  then  he  retired  to 
Ills  own  room  with  his  book,  and  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  day 
upon  his  bed  re-reading  it :  and  he  did  as  Warrington  had  advised, 
and  altered  not  a  little,  and  added  a  great  deal,  until  at  length  he  had 
fashioned  "  Walter  Lorraine  "'  pretty  much  into  the  shape  in  which,  as 
the  respected  novel-reader  knows,  it  subsequently  appeared. 

Whilst  he  was  at  work  upon  this  performance,  the  good-natured 
Warrington  artfully  inspired  the  two  gentlemen  who  "  read "'  for 
Messrs.  Bacon  and  Bungay  with  the  greatest  curiosity  regarding 
"  Walter  Lorraine,"  and  pointed  out  the  peculiar  merits  of  its  distin- 
guished author.  It  was  at  the  period  when  the  novel  called  ''  The 
Fashionable "  was  in  vogue  among  us  ;  and  Warrington  did  not  fail 
to  point  out,  as  before,  how  Pen  was  a  man  of  the  very  first  fashion 
himself,  and  received  at  the  houses  of  some  of  the  greatest  personages 
in  the  land.  The  simple  and  kind-hearted  Percy  Popjoy  was  brought 
to  bear  upon  Mrs.  Bungay,  whom  he  informed  that  his  friend  Pen- 
dennis  was  occupied  upon  a  work  of  the  most  exciting  nature  ;  a  w.ork 
that  the  whole  town  would  run  after,  full  of  wit,  genius,  satire,  pathos, 
and  every  conceivable  good  quality.  We  have  said  before  that 
Bungay  knew  no  more  about  novels  than  he  did  about  Hebrew  or 
Algebra,  and  neither  read  nor  understood  any  of  the  books  which  he 
published  and  paid  for;  but  he  took  his  opinions  from  his  profes- 
sional advisers  and  from  Mrs.  B. ;  and,  evidently  with  a  view  to  a 
commercial  transaction,  asked  Pendennis  and  Warrington  to  dinner 
again. 

Bacon,  when  he  found  that  Bungay  was  about  to  treat,  of  course 
began  to  be  anxious  and  curious,  and  desired  to  outbid  his  rival. 
Was  anything  settled  between  Mr.  Pendennis  and  the  odious  house 
"over  the  way"  about  the  new  book?  Mr.  Hack,  the  confidential 
reader,  was  told  to  make  inquiries,  and  see  if  anything  was  to  be 
done ;  and  the  result  of  the  inquiries  of  that  diplomatist  was,  that  one 
morning  Bacon  himself  toiled  up  the  staircase  of  Lamb  Court,  and  to 
the  door  on  which  the  names  of  Mr.  Warrington  and  Mr.  Pendennis 
were  painted  ! 

For  a  gentleman  of  fashion,  as  poor  Pen  was  represented  to  be,  it 
must  be  confessed  that  the  apartments  he  and  his  friend  occupied 
were  not  very  suitable.  The  ragged  carpet  had  grown  only  more 
ragged  during  the  two  years  of  joint  occupancy ;  a  constant  odour  of 
tobacco  perfumed  the  sitting-room ;  Bacon  tumbled  over  the  laundress's 
buckets  in  the  passage  through  which  he  had  to  pass ;  Warrington's 
shooting  jacket  was  as  tattered  at  the  elbows  as  usual;  and  the  chair 
which  Bacon  was  requested  to  take  on  entering  broke  down  wth  the 


PENDENNTS.  401 

publisher.  Warrington  burst  out  laughing,  said  that  Bacon  had  got 
the  game  chair,  and  bawled  out  to  Pen  to  fetch  a  sound  one  from  his 
bed-room.  And  seeing  the  publisher  looking  round  the  dingy  room 
with  an  air  of  profound  pity  and  wonder,  asked  him  whether  he  didn't 
think  the  apartments  were  elegant,  and  if  he  would  like,  for  Mrs.  Bacon's 
drawing-room,  any  of  the  articles  of  furniture?  Mr.  Warrington's 
character,  as  a  humourist,  was  known  to  Mr.  Bacon  :  "  I  never  can 
make  that  chap  out,"  the  publisher  was  heard  to  say,  "  or  tell  whether 
he  is  in  earnest  or  only  chaffing." 

It  is  very  possible  that  Mr.  Bacon  would  have  set  the  two  gentle- 
men down  as  impostors  altogether,  but  that  there  chanced  to  be  on 
the  breakfast-table  certain  cards  of  invitation  which  the  post  of  the 
morning  had  brought  in  for  Pen,  and  which  happened  to  come  from 
some  very  exalted  personages  of  the  beau-monde,  into  which  our  young 
man  had  his  introduction.  Looking  down  upon  these.  Bacon  saw 
that  the  Marchioness  of  Steyne  would  be  at  home  to  Mr.  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis  upon  a  given  day,  and  that  another  lady  of  distinction  proposed 
to  have  dancing  at  her  house  upon  a  certain  future  evening.  War- 
rington saw  the  admiring  publisher  eyeing  these  documents.  "Ah," 
said  he,  with  an  air  of  simplicity,  "  Pendennis  is  one  of  the  most 
aflable  young  men  I  ever  knew,  Mr.  Bacon.  Here  is  a  young  fellow 
that  dines  with  all  the  great  men  in  London,  and  yet  he'll  take  his 
mutton-chop  with  you  and  me  quite  contentedly.  There's  nothing 
like  the  affability  of  the  old  English  gentleman." 

"  Oh  no,  nothing,"  said  Mr.  Bacon. 

"  And  you  wonder  why  he  should  go  on  living  up  three  pair  of 
stairs  with  me,  don't  you,  now  ?  Well,  it  is  a  queer  taste.  But  we 
are  fond  of  each  other;  and  as  I  can't  afford  to  live  in  a  grand  house, 
he  comes  and  stays  in  these  ricketty  old  chambers  with  me.  He's  a 
man  that  can  afford  to  live  anywhere." 

"  I  fancy  it  don't  cost  him  much  here"  thought  Mr.  Bacon ;  and 
the  object  of  these  praises  presently  entered  the  room  from  his  adja- 
cent sleeping  apartment. 

Then  Mr.  Bacon  began  to  speak  upon  the  subject  of  his  visit ; 
said  he  heard  that  Mr.  Pendennis  had  a  manuscript  novel ;  professed 
himself  anxious  to  have  a  sight  of  that  work,  and  had  no  doubt  that 
they  would  come  to  terms  respecting  it.  What  would  be  his  price  for 
it  .^  would  he  give  Bacon  the  refusal  of  it  ?  he  would  find  our  house  a 
liberal  house,  and  so  forth.  The  delighted  Pen  assumed  an  air  of 
indifference,  and  said  that  he  was  already  in  treaty  with  Bungay,  and 
could  give  no  definite  answer.  This  piqued  the  other  into  such 
liberal,  though  vague  offers,  that  Pen  began  to  fancy  Eldorado  was 
opening  to  him,  and  that  his  fortune  was  made  from  that  day. 

I  shall  not  mention  what  was  the  sum  of  money  which  Mr.  Arthur 

26 

oh^lTA  ^mi  STATE  COLLESE  mm 


t02 


PENDEXNIS. 


Pendennis  linally  received  for  the  first  edition  of  his  novel  of  "  Walter 
Lorraine,''  lest  other  young  literary  aspirants  should  expect  to  be  as 
lucky  as  he  was,  and  unprofessional  persons  forsake  their  own  callings, 
whatever  they  may  be,  for  the  sake  of  supplying  the  world  witli  novels, 
whereof  there  is  ah-eady  a  sufficiency.  Let  no  young  people  be 
misled  and  rush  fatally  into  romance-writing  :  for  one  book  which 
succeeds,  let  them  remember  the  many  that  fail,  I  do  not  say 
'deservedly  or  otherwise,  and  wholesomely  abstain :  or  if  they  venture, 
at  least  let  them  do  so  at  their  own  peril.  As  for  those  who  have 
already  Avritten  novels,  this  warning  is  not  addressed,  of  course,  to 
them.  Let  them  take  their  wares  to  market ;  let  them  apply  to  Bacon 
and  Bungay,  and  aU  the  publishers  in  the  Row,  or  the  metropolis,  and 
may  they  be  happy  in  their  ventures !  This  world  is  so  wide,  and  the 
tastes  of  mankind  happily  so  various,  that  there  is  always  a  chance  for 
ever)'  man,  and  he  may  win  the  prize  by  his  genius  or  by  his  good 
fortune.  But  what  is  the  chance  of  success  or  failure ;  of  obtaining 
popularity,  or  of  holding  it  when  achieved  ?  One  man  goes  over  the 
ice,  which  bears  him,  and  a  score  who  follow  flounder  in.  In  fine, 
Mr.  Pendennis"s  was  an  exceptional  case,  and  applies  to  himself  only: 
and  I  assert  solemnly,  and  will  to  the  last  maintain,  that  it  is  one  thing 
to  write  a  novel,  and  another  to  get  money  for  it. 

By  merit,  then,  or  good  fortune,  or  the  skilful  playing  off  of  Bungay 
against  Bacon  which  Warrington  performed  (and  which  an  amateur 
novelist  is  quite  welcome  to  try  upon  any  two  publishers  in  the  trade), 
Pen's  novel  was  actually  sold  for  a  certain  sum  of  money  to  one  of  the 
two  eminent  patrons  of  letters  whom  we  have  introduced  to  our 
readers.  The  sum  was  so  considerable  that  Pen  thought  of  opening 
an  account  at  a  banker's  or  of  keeping  a  cab  and  horse,  or  of  descend- 
ing into  the  first  floor  of  Lamb  Court  into  newly  furnished  apartments, 
or  of  migrating  to  the  fashionable  end  of  the  town. 

Major  Pendennis  advised  the  latter  move  strongly ;  he  opened  his 
eyes  with  wonder  when  he  heard  of  the  good  luck  that  had  befallen 
Pen ;  and  which  the  latter,  as  soon  as  it  occurred,  hastened  eagerly  to 
communicate  to  his  uncle.  The  ^lajor  was  almost  angry  that  Pen 
should  have  earned  so  much  money.  "  Who  the  doose  reads  this  kind 
of  thing  ?  '■'  he  thought  to  himself,  when  he  heard  of  the  bargain  which 
Pen  had  made.  "/  never  read  yoiu:  novels  and  rubbish.  Except 
Paul  de  Kock,  who  certainly  makes  me  laugh,  I  don't  think  I've  looked 
into  a  book  of  the  sort  these  thirty  years.  Gad !  Pens  a  lucky  fellow. 
I  should  think  he  might  write  one  of  these  in  a  month  now, — say  a 
month,  that's  twelve  in  a  year.  Dammy,  he  may  go  on  spinning  this 
Aonsense  for  the  next  four  or  five  years,  and  make  a  fortune.  In  the 
.neantime,  I  should  wish  him  to  live  properly,  take  respectable  apart- 
ments, and  keep  a  brougham.'' 


PENDENNIS. 


403 


Arthur,  laughing,  told  Warrington  what  his  uncle's  advice  had 
been ;  but  he  luckily  had  a  much  more  reasonable  counsellor  than  the 
old  gentleman  in  the  person  of  his  friend,  and  in  his  own  conscience, 
which  said  to  him,  "  Be  grateful  for  this  piece  of  good  fortune ;  don't 
plunge  into  any  extravagances.  Pay  back  Laura!"  And  he  wrote  a 
letter  to  her,  in  which  he  told  her  his  thanks  and  his  regard ;  and 
inclosed  to  her  such  an  instalment  of  his  debt  as  nearly  wiped  it  off. 
The  widow  and  Laura  herself  might  well  be  affected  by  the  letter.  It 
was  written  with  genuine  tenderness  and  modesty ;  and  old  Dr.  Port- 
man,  when  he  read  a  passage  in  the  letter,  in  which  Pen,  \yith  an 
honest  heart  full  of  gratitude,  humbly  thanked  Heaven  for  his  present 
prosperity,  and  for  sending  him  such  dear  and  kind  friends  to  support 
him  in  his  ill-fortune, — when  Doctor  Portman  read  this  portion  of  the 
letter,  his  voice  faltered,  and  his  eyes  twinkled  behind  his  spectacles. 
And  when  he  had  quite  finished  reading  the  same,  and  had  taken  his 
glasses  off  his  nose,  and  had  folded  up  the  paper  and  given  it  back  to 
the  widow,  I  am  constrained  to  say,  that  after  holding  Mrs.  Penden- 
nis's  hand  for  a  minute,  the  Doctor  drew  that  lady  towards  him  and 
fairly  kissed  her :  at  which  salute,  of  course,  Helen  burst  out  crying  on 
the  Doctor's  shoulder,  for  her  heart  was  too  full  to  give  any  othei 
reply :  and  the  Doctor,  blushing  a  great  deal  after  his  feat,  led  the 
lady,  with  a  bow,  to  the  sofa,  on  which  he  seated  himself  by  her ;  and 
he  mumbled  out,  in  a  low  voice,  some  words  of  a  Great  Poet  whom  he 
loved  very  much,  and  who  describes  how  in  the  days  of  his  prosperity 
he  had  made  "  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy." 

"  The  letter  does  the  boy  very  great  honour,  very  great  honour,  my 
dear,"  he  said,  patting  it  as  it  lay  on  Helen's  knee — "  and  I  think  we 
have  all  reason  to  be  thankful  for  it — very  thankful.  I  need  not  tell 
you  in  what  quarter,  my  dear,  for  you  are  a  sainted  woman :  yes, 
Laura,  my  love,  your  mother  is  a  sainted  woman.  And  lAIrs.  Pen- 
dennis,  ma'am,  I  shall  order  a  copy  of  the  book  for  myself,  and 
another  at  the  Book  Club." 

We  may  be  sure  that  the  widow  and  Laura  walked  out  to  meet  the 
mail  which  brought  them  their  copy  of  Pen's  precious  novel,  as  soon 
as  that  work  was  printed  and  ready  for  delivery  to  the  public :  and 
that  they  read  it  to  each  other :  and  that  they  also  read  it  privately 
and  separately,  for  when  the  widow  came  out  of  her  room  in  her 
dressing-gown  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  with  volume  two,  which 
she  had  finished,  she  found  Laura  devouring  volume  three  in  bed. 
Laura  did  not  say  much  about  the  book,  but  Helen  pronounced  that 
it  was  a  happy  mixture  of  Shakspeare,  and  Byron,  and  Walter  Scott, 
and  was  quite  certain  that  her  son  was  the  greatest  genius,  as  he  was 
the  best  son,  in  the  world. 

Did  Laura  not  think  about  the  uook  and  the  author,  although  she 


404  PENDENNIS. 

said  90  little  ?  At  least  she  thought  about  Arthur  Pendennis.  Kind 
as  his  tone  was,  it  vexed  her.  She  did  not  like  his  eagerness  to  repay 
that  money.  She  would  rather  that  her  brother  had  taken  her  gift  as 
she  intended  it  :  and  was  pained  that  there  should  be  money  calcula- 
tions between  them.  His  letters  from  London,  written  with  the  good- 
natured  wish  to  amuse  his  mother,  were  full  of  descriptions  of  the 
famous  people  and  the  entertainments,  and  magnificence  of  the  great 
city.  Everybody  was  flattering  him  and  spoiling  him,  she  was  sure. 
Was  he  not  looking  to  some  great  marriage,  with  that  cunning  uncle 
for  a  Mentor  (between  whom  and  Laura  there  was  always  an  anti- 
path)'!,  that  inveterate  worldling,  whose  whole  thoughts  were  bent 
upon  pleasure  and  rank  and  fortune .''  He  never  alluded  to — to  old 
times,  when  he  spoke  of  her.  He  had  forgotten  them  and  her, 
perhaps :  had  he  not  forgotten  other  things  and  people  ? 

These  thoughts  may  have  passed  in  Miss  Laura's  mind,  though 
she  did  not,  she  could  not,  confide  them  to  Helen.  She  had  one 
more  secret,  too,  from  that  lady,  which  she  could  not  divulge,  per- 
haps because  she  knew  how  the  widow  would  have  rejoiced  to  know 
it.  This  regarded  an  event  which  had  occurred  during  that  visit 
to  Lady  Rockminster,  which  Laura  had  paid  in  the  last  Christmas 
holidays  :  when  Pen  was  at  home  with  his  mother,  and  when  Mr. 
Pynsent,  supposed  to  be  so  cold  and  so  ambitious,  had  formally 
offered  his  hand  to  Miss  Bell.  No  one  except  herself  and  her  admirer 
knew  of  this  proposal  :  or  that  Pynsent  had  been  rejected  by  her, 
and  probably  the  reasons  she  gave  to  the  mortified  young  man  him- 
self were  not  those  which  actuated  her  refusal,  or  those  which  she 
chose  to  acknowledge  to  herself.  "  I  never,"  she  told  Pynsent,  '•  can 
accept  such  an  offer  as  that  which  you  make  me,  which  you  own  is 
unknown  to  your  family,  as  I  am  sure  it  would  be  unwelcome  to  them. 
The  difference  of  rank  between  us  is  too  great.  You  are  very  kind  to 
me  here — too  good  and  kind,  dear  Mr.  Pynsent— but  I  am  little  better 
than  a  dependant." 

"  A  dependant  !  who  ever  so  thought  of  you  ?  You  are  the  equal 
of  all  the  world,"  Pynsent  broke  out. 

"  I  am  a  dependant  at  home,  too,"  Laura  said,  sweetly,  "  and 
indeed,  I  would  not  be  otherwise.  Left  early  a  poor  orphan,  I  have 
found  the  kindest  and  tenderest  of  mothers,  and  I  have  vowed  never 
to  leave  her — never.  Pray  do  not  speak  of  this  again^herc,  under 
your  relative's  roof,  or  elsewhere.     It  is  impossible.'" 

"  If  Lady  Rockminster  asks  you  herself,  will  you  listen  to  her  ?  " 
Pynsent  cried,  eagerly. 

"  No,"  Laura  said.  "  I  beg  you  never  to  speak  of  this  any  r.iorc. 
I  must  go  away  if  you  do."— And  with  this  she  left  him. 

Pynsent  never  asked  for   Lady   Rockminsters  intercession  :    he 


PENDEXNIS.  405 

knew  how  vain  it  was  to  look  for  that  :  and  he  never  spoke  again  on 
that  subject  to  Laura  or  to  any  person. 

When  at  length  the  famous  novel  appeared,  it  not  only  met  with 
applause  from  more  impartial  critics  than  JMrs.  Pendennis,  but, 
luckily  for  Pen,  it  suited  the  taste  of  the  public,  and  obtained  a  quick 
and  considerable  popularity.  Before  two  months  were  over,  Pen 
had  the  satisfaction  and  surprise  of  seeing  the  second  edition  of 
"  Walter  Lorraine  "  advertised  in  the  newspapers  ;  and  enjoyed  the 
pleasure  of  reading  and  sending  home  the  critiques  of  various  literary 
journals  and  reviewers  upon  his  book.  Their  censure  did  not  much 
affect  him  !  for  the  good-natured  young  man  was  disposed  to  accept 
with  considerable  humility  the  dispraise  of  others.  Nor  did  their  praise 
elate  him  over-much  :  for,  like  most  honest  persons,  he  had  his  own 
opinion  about  his  own  performance,  and  when  a  critic  praised  him  in 
the  wrong  place,  he  was  hurt  rather  than  pleased  by  the  compliment. 
But  if  a  review  of  his  work  was  very  laudatory,  it  was  a  great  pleasure 
to  him  to  send  it  home  to  his  mother  at  Fairoaks,  and  to  think  of 
the  joy  which  it  would  give  there.  There  are  some  natures,  and 
perhaps,  as  we  have  said,  Pendennis's  was  one,  which  are  improved 
and  softened  by  prosperity  and  kindness,  as  there  are  men  of  other 
dispositions,  who  become  arrogant  and  graceless  under  good  fortune. 
Happy  he  who  can  endure  one  or  the  other  with  modesty  and  good- 
humour  !  Lucky  he  who  has  been  educated  to  bear  his  fate,  what- 
soever it  may  be,  by  an  early  example  of  uprightness,  and  a  childish 
training  in  honour  ! 


4o6 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 


BRED  up,  like  a  bailiff  or  a  shabby  attorney,  about  the  purlieus  of 
the  Inns  of  Court,  Shepherd's  Inn  is  always  to  be  found  in  the 
close  neighbourhood  of  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields  and  the  Temple.     Some- 
where behind  the  black  gables  and  smutty  chimney-stacks  of  Wych 
Street,  Holywell  Street,  Chancery  Lane,  the  quadrangle  lies,  hidden 
from  the  outer  world ;  and  it  is  approached  by  curious  passages  and 
ambiguous  smoky  alleys,  on  which  the  sun  has  forgotten  to  shine. 
Slop-sellers,  brandy-ball  and  hard-bake  vendors,  purveyors  of  theatrical 
prints  for  youth,  dealers  in  dingy  furniture,  and  bedding  suggestive 
of  anything  but  sleep,  line  the  narrow  walls  and  dark  casements  with 
their  wares.    The  doors  are  many-belled :  and  crowds  of  dirty  children 
form  endless  groups  about  the  steps :  or  around  the  shell-fish  dealers' 
trays  in  these  courts;    whereof  the  damp   pavements  resound  with 
pattens,  and  are  drabbled  with  a  never-failing  mud.     Ballad-singers 
come  and  chant  here,  in  deadly  guttural  tones,  satirical  songs  against 
the  Whig  administration,  against  the  bishops  and  dignified  clergy, 
against  the  German  relatives  of  an  august  royal  family :  Punch  sets  up 
his  theatre,  sure  of  an  audience,  and  occasionally  of  a  halfpenny  from 
the  swarming  occupants  of  the  houses:    women  scream  after  their 
children  for  loitering  in  the  gutter,  or,  worse  still,  against  the  husband 
who  comes  reeling  from  the  gin-shop ;  there  is  a  ceaseless  din  and  life 
in  these  courts,  out  of  which  you  pass  into  the  tranquil,  old-fashioned 
quadrangle  of  Shepherd's  Inn.     In  a  mangy  little  grass-plat  in  the 
centre  rises  up  the  statue  of  Shepherd,  defended  by  iron-railings  from 
the  assauks  of  boys.     The  Hall  of  the  Inn,  on  which  the  founders 
arms  are  painted,  occupies  one  side  of  the  square,  the  tall  and  ancient 
chambers  are  carried  round  other  two  sides,  and  over  the  central 
archway,  which  leads  into  Oldcastle  Street,  and  so  into  the  great 
London  thoroughfare. 

The  Inn  may  have  been  occupied  by  lawyers  once :  but  the  laity 
have  long  since  been  admitted  into  its  precincts,  and  I  do  not  know 
that  any  of  the  principal  legal  firms  have  their  chambers  here.  The 
offices  of  the  Polwheedle  and  Tredyddlum  Copper  Mines  occupy  one 
set  of  the  ground-floor  chambers ;  the  Registry  of  Patent  Inventions 
and   Union   of   Genius   and    Capital    Company,  another;— the    only 


PENDENNIS.  407 

g.ntleman  whose  name  figures  here,  and  in  the  "  Law  List,"  is 
Mr.  Campion,  who  wears  mustachios,  and  who  comes  in  his  cab 
twice  or  thrice  in  a  week;  and  whose  West  End  offices  are  in  Curzon 
Street,  Mayfair,  where  Mrs.  Campion  entertains  the  nobihty  and  gentry 
to  whom  her  husband  lends  money.  There,  and  on  his  glazed  cards,  he 
is  Mr.  Somerset  Campion  ;  here  he  is  Campion  &  Co. ;  and  the  same 
tuft  which  ornaments  his  chin,  sprouts  from  the  under-lip  of  the  rest  of 
the  firm.  It  is  splendid  to  see  his  cab-horse  harness  blazing  with  heraldic 
bearings,  as  the  vehicle  stops  at  the  door  leading  to  his  chambers.  The 
horse  flings  froth  oft"  his  nostrils  as  he  chafes  and  tosses  under  the 
shining  bit.  The  reins  and  the  breeches  of  the  groom  are  glittering  white, 
— the  lustre  of  that  equipage  makes  a  sunshine  in  that  shady  place. 

Our  old  friend,  Captain  Costigan,  has  examined  Campion's  cab  and 
horse  many  an  afternoon,  as  he  trailed  about  the  court  in  his  carpet 
slippers  and  dressing-gown,  with  his  old  hat  cocked  over  his  eye. 
He  suns  himself  there  after  his  breakfast  when  the  day  is  suitable; 
and  goes  and  pays  a  visit  to  the  porter's  lodge,  where  he  pats  the 
heads  of  the  children,  and  talks  to  Mrs.  Bolton  about  the  thayatres 
and  me  daughther  Leedy  Mirabel.  Mrs.  Bolton  was  herself  in  the 
profession  once,  and  danced  at  the  Wells  in  early  days  as  the  thirteenth 
of  Mr.  Serle's  forty  pupils. 

Costigan  lives  in  the  third  floor  at  No.  4,  in  the  rooms  which  were 
Mr.  Podmore's,  and  whose  name  is  still  on  the  door — (somebody 
else's  name,  by  the  way,  is  on  almost  all  the  doors  in  Shepherd's  Inn). 
When  Charley  Podmore  (the  pleasing  tenor  singer,  T.R.D.L.,  and 
at  the  Back  Kitchen  Concert  Rooms,)  married,  and  went  to  live  at 
Lambeth,  he  ceded  his  chambers  to  Mr.  Bows  and  Captain  Costigan, 
who  occupy  them  in  common  now,  and  you  may  often  hear  the  tones 
of  Mr.  Bows's  piano  of  fine  days  when  the  windows  are  open,  and  when 
he  is  practising  for  amusement,  or  for  the  instruction  of  a  theatrical 
pupil,  of  whom  he  has  one  or  two.  Fanny  Bolton  is  one,  the  portress's 
daughter,  who  has  heard  tell  of  her  mother's  theatrical  glories,  which 
she  longs  to  emulate.  She  has  a  good  voice  and  a  pretty  face  and 
figure  for  the  stage ;  and  she  prepares  the  rooms  and  makes  the  beds 
and  breakfasts  for  Messrs.  Costigan  and  Bows,  in  return  for  which 
the  latter  instructs  her  in  music  and  singing.  But  for  his  unfortunate 
propensity  to  liquor  (and  in  that  excess  she  supposes  that  all  men  of 
fashion  indulge),  she  thinks  the  Captain  the  finest  gentleman  in  the 
v.orld,  and  believes  in  all  the  versions  of  all  his  stories  ;  and  she  is  very 
fond  of  Mr.  Bows  too,  and  very  grateful  to  him,  and  this  shy,  queer  old 
gentleman  has  a  fatherly  fondness  for  her  too,  for  in  truth  his  heart  is 
full  of  kindness,  and  he  is  never  easy  unless  he  loves  somebody. 

Costigan  has  had  the  carriages  of  visitors  of  distinction  before  his 
humble  door  in  Shepherd's  Inn:  and  to  hear  him  talk  of  a  morning 


4oS  PEXDEAWIS. 

(for  his  evening  song  is  of  a  much  more  melancholy  nature)  you  would 
fancy  that  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Mirabel  were  in  the  constant  habit  of 
calling  at  his  chambers,  and  bringing  with  them  the  select  nobility  to 
visit  the  "old  man,  the  honest  old  half-pay  Captain,  poor  old  Jack 
Costigan,"  as  Cos  calls  himself. 

The  truth  is,  that  Lady  Mirabel  has  left  her  husband's  card  (which 
has  been  stuck  in  the  little  looking-glass  over  the  mantel-piece  of  the 
sitting-room  at  No.  4,  for  these  many  months  past),  and  has  come  in 
person  to  see  her  father,  but  not  of  late  days.  A  kind  person,  disposed 
to  discharge  her  duties  gravely,  upon  her  marriage  with  Sir  Charles^ 
she  settled  a  little  pension  upon  her  father,  who  occasionally  was 
admitted  to  the  table  of  his  daughter  and  son-in-law.  At  first  poor 
Cos's  behaviour  "  in  the  hoight  of  poloit  societee,"  as  he  denominated 
Lady  Mirabels  drawing-room  table,  was  harmless,  if  it  was  absurd. 
As  he  clothed  his  person  in  his  best  attire,  so  he  selected  the  longest 
and  richest  words  in  his  vocabulary  to  deck  his  conversation,  and 
adopted  a  solemnity  of  demeanour  which  struck  with  astonishment 
all  those  persons  in  whose  company  he  happened  to  be. — "  Was  your 
Leedyship  in  the  Pork  to-dee?"  he  would  demand  of  his  daughter. 
'•  I  looked  for  your  equipage  in  veen  : — the  poor  old  man  was  not  gra- 
tified by  the  soight  of  his  daughther's  choriot.  Sir  Chorlus,  I  saw  your 
neem  at  the  Levee;  many's  the  Levee  at  the  Castle  at  Dublin  that 
poor  old  Jack  Costigan  has  attended  in  his  time.  Did  the  Juke  look 
pretty  well  ?  Bedad,  I'll  call  at  Apsley  House  and  lave  me  cyard  upon 
'um.  I  thank  ye,  James,  a  little  dthrop  more  champeane."'  Indeed,  he 
was  magnificent  in  his  courtesy  to  all,  and  addressed  his  observations 
not  only  to  the  master  and  the  guests,  but  to  the  domestics  who  waited 
at  the  table,  and  who  had  some  difficulty  in  maintaining  their  profes- 
sional gravity  while  they  waited  on  Captain  Costigan. 

On  the  first  two  or  three  visits  to  his  son-in-law,  Costigan  main- 
tained a  strict  sobriety,  content  to  make  up  for  his  lost  time  when  he 
got  to  the  Back  Kitchen,  where  he  bragged  about  his  son-in-law's  clar"t 
and  burgundee,  until  his  own  utterance  began  to  fail  him,  over  his 
sixth  tumbler  of  whisky-punch.  But  with  familiarity  his  caution 
vanished,  and  poor  Cos  lamentably  disgraced  himself  at  Sir  Charles 
Mirabel's  table,  by  premature  inebriation.  A  carriage  was  called  for 
him :  the  hospitable  door  was  shut  upon  him.  Often  and  sadly  did 
he  speak  to  his  friends  at  the  Kitchen  of  his  resemblance  to  King  Lear 
in  the  plee— of  his  having  a  thankless  choild,  bedad— of  his  being  a 
pore  worn-out  lonely  old  man,  dthriven  to  dthrinking  by  ingratitude, 
and  seeking  to  dthrown  his  sorrows  in  punch. 

It  is  painful  to  be  obliged  to  record  the  weaknesses  of  fathers, 
but  it  must  be  furthermore  told  of  Costigan,  that  when  his  credit  was 
exhausted  and  his  money  gone,  he  would  not  unfrequently  beg  money 


PENDENiYIS.  409 

from  his  daughter,  and  make  statements  to  her  not  altogether  con- 
sistent with  strict  truth.  On  one  day  a  baihff  was  about  to  lead  him 
to  prison,  he  wrote,  "  unless  the— to  you  insignificant — sum  of  three 
pound  five  can  be  forthcoming  to  liberate  a  poor  man's  grey  hairs  from 
gaol."  And  the  good-natured  Lady  Mirabel  dispatched  the  money 
necessary  for  her  father's  liberation,  with  a  caution  to  him  to  be  more 
economical  for  the  future.  On  a  second  occasion  the  Captain  met 
"with  a  frightful  accident,  and  broke  a  plate-glass  window  in  the  Strand, 
for  which  the  proprietor  of  the  shop  held  him  liable.  The  money  was 
forthcoming  this  time  too,  to  repair  her  papa's  disaster,  and  was  carried 
down  by  Lady  Mirabel's  servant  to  the  slipshod  messenger  and  aide- 
de-camp  of  the  Captain,  who  brought  the  letter  announcing  his  mishap. 
If  the  servant  had  followed  the  Captain's  aide-de-camp  who  carried 
the  remittance,  he  would  have  seen  that  gentleman,  a  person  of 
Costigan's  country  too  (for  have  we  not  said,  that  however  poor  an 
Irish  gentleman  is,  he  always  has  a  poorer  Irish  gentleman  to  run  on 
his  errands  and  transact  his  pecuniary  affairs  ?)  call  a  cab  from  the 
nearest  stand,  and  rattle  down  to  the  Roscius's  Head,  Harlequin  Yard, 
Drury  Lane,  where  the  Captain  was  indeed  in  pawn,  and  for  several 
glasses  containing  rum  and  water,  or  other  spirituous  refreshment,  ot 
which  he  and  his  staff  had  partaken.  On  a  third  melancholy  occa- 
sion he  wrote  that  he  was  attacked  by  illness,  and  wanted  money  to 
pay  the  physician  whom  he  was  compelled  to  call  in ;  and  this  time 
Lady  Mirabel,  alarmed  about  her  father's  safety,  and  perhaps  reproach- 
ing herself  that  she  had  of  late  lost  sight,  of  him,  called  for  her 
carriage  and  drove  to  Shepherd's  Inn,  at  the  gate  of  which  she 
alighted,  whence  she  found  the  way  to  her  father's  chambers,  "  No.  4, 
third  floor,  name  of  Podmore  over  the  door,"  the  portress  said,  with 
many  curtsies,  pointing  towards  the  door  of  the  house  into  which  the 
affectionate  daughter  entered  and  mounted  the  dingy  stair.  Alas !  the 
door,  surmounted  by  the  name  of  Podmore,  was  opened  to  her  by  poor 
Cos  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  prepared  with  the  gridiron  to  receive  the 
mutton-chops  which  Mrs.  Bolton  had  gone  to  purchase. 

Also,  it  was  not  pleasant  for  Sir  Charles  Mirabel  to  have  letters 
constantly  addressed  to  him  at  Brookes's,  with  the  information  that 
Captain  Costigan  was  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  an  answer ;  or  when  he 
went  to  play  his  rubber  at  the  Travellers',  to  be  obliged  to  shoot  out 
of  his  brougham  and  run  up  the  steps  rapidly,  lest  his  father-in-law- 
should  seize  upon  him  ;  and  to  think  that  while  he  read  his  paper  or 
played  his  whist,  the  Captain  was  walking  on  the  opposite  side  of  Pall 
Mall,  with  that  dreadful  cocked  hat,  and  the  eye  beneath  it  fixed 
steadily  upon  the  windows  of  the  club.  Sir  Charles  was  a  weak  man  ; 
he  was  old,  and  had  many  infirmities  :  he  cried  about  his  father-in- 
law  to  his  wife,  whom  he  adored  with  senile  infatuation :  he  said  he 


^,o  FEA'DEIVN/S. 

must  go  abroad,— he  must  go  and  live  in  the  country,— he  should  die, 
or  have  another  fit  if  he  saw  that  man  again— he  knew  he  should. 
And  it  was  only  by  paying  a  second  visit  to  Captain  Costigan,  and 
representing  to  him,  that  if  he  plagued  Sir  Charles  by  letters,  or 
addressed  him  in  the  street,  or  made  any  further  applications  for 
loans,  his  allowance  would  be  withdrawn  altogether;  that  Lady  Mirabel 
was  enabled  to  keep  her  papa  in  order,  and  to  restore  tranquillity  to 
her  husband.  And  on  occasion  of  this  visit,  she  sternly  rebuked  Bows 
for  not  keeping  a  better  watch  over  the  Captain;  desired  that  he 
should  not  be  allowed  to  drink  in  that  shameful  way ;  and  that  the 
people  at  the  horrid  taverns  which  he  frequented  should  be  told,  upon 
no  account  to  give  him  credit.  '"  Papa's  conduct  is  bringing  me  to 
the  grave,"  she  said  (though  she  looked  perfectly  healthy),  "  and  you, 
as  an  old  man,  Mr.  Bows,  and  one  that  pretended  to  have  a  regard 
for  us,  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  abetting  him  in  it."  These  were  the 
thanks  which  honest  Bows  got  for  his  friendship  and  his  life's  devo- 
tion. And  I  do  not  suppose  that  the  old  philosopher  was  much  worse 
off  than  many  other  men,  or  had  greater  reason  to  grumble. 

On  the  second  floor  of  the  next  house  to  Bows's,  in  Shepherd's 
Inn,  at  No.  3,  live  two  other  acquaintances  of  ours.  Colonel  Alta- 
mont,  agent  to  the  Nawaub  of  Lucknow,  and  Captain  the  Chevalier 
Edward  Strong.  No  name  at  all  is  over  their  door.  The  Captain 
does  not  choose  to  let  all  the  world  know  where  he  lives,  and  his  cards 
bear  the  address  of  a  Jermyn  Street  hotel ;  and  as  for  the  Ambassador 
Plenipotentiary  of  the  Indian  potentate,  he  is  not  an  envoy  accredited 
to  the  Courts  of  St.  James's  or  Leadenhall  Street,  but  is  here  on  a  con- 
fidential mission,  quite  independent  of  the  East  India  Company  or  the 
Board  of  Control.  "  In  fact,"  as  Strong  says,  "  Colonel  Altamont's 
object  being  financial,  and  to  effectuate  a  sale  of  some  of  the  principal 
diamonds  and  rubies  of  the  Lucknow  crown,  his  wish  is  jiot  to  report 
himself  at  the  India  House  or  in  Cannon  Row,  but  rather  to  negotiate 
with  private  capitalists — with  whom  he  has  had  important  transactions 
both  in  this  country  and  on  the  Continent." 

We  have  said  that  these  anon>-mous  chambers  of  Strong's  had  been 
very  comfortably  furnished  since  the  arrival  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering 
in  London,  and  the  Chevalier  might  boast  with  reason  to  the  friends 
who  visited  him,  that  few  retired  Captains  were  more  snugly  quartered 
than  he,  in  his  crib  in  Shepherd's  Inn.  There  were  three  rooms  below : 
the  office  where  Strong  transacted  his  business— whatever  that  might 
be— and  where  still  remained  the  desk  and  railings  of  the  departed 
officials  who  had  preceded  him,  and  the  Chevalier's  own  bed-room  and 
sittmg-room ;  and  a  private  stair  led  out  of  the  office  to  two  upper 
apartments,  the   one  occupied  by  Colonel  Altamont,  and  the  other 


PENDENNIS.  411 

serving  as  the  kitchen  of  the  estabhshment,  and  the  bed-room  of 
Mr.  Grady,  the  attendant.  These  rooms  were  on  a  level  with  the 
apartments  of  our  friends  Bows  and  Costigan  next  door  at  No.  4;  and 
by  reaching  over  the  communicating  leads,  Grady  could  command  the 
niignonette-box  which  bloomed  in  Bows's  window. 

From  Grady's  kitchen  casement  often  came  odours  still  more 
fragrant.  The  three  old  soldiers,  who  formed  the  garrison  of  No.  4, 
were  all  skilled  in  the  culinary  art.  Grady  was  great  at  an  Irish  stew; 
the  Colonel  was  famous  for  pillaus  and  curries  ;  and  as  for  Strong,  he 
could  cook  anything.  He  made  French  dishes  and  Spanish  dishes, 
stews,  fricassees,  and  omelettes,  to  perfection  ;  nor  was  there  any  man 
in  England  more  hospitable  than  he  .when  his  purse  was  full,  or  his 
credit  was  good.  At  those  happy  periods,  he  could  give  a  friend,  as 
he  said,  a  good  dinner,  a  good  glass  of  wine,  and  a  good  song  after- 
wards ;  and  poor  Cos  often  heard  with  envy  the  roar  of  Strong's 
choruses,  and  the  musical  clinking  of  the  glasses,  as  he  sate  in  his 
own  room,  so  far  removed  and  yet  so  near  to  those  festivities.  It  was 
not  expedient  to  invite  Mr.  Costigan  always  :  his  practice  of  inebriation 
was  lamentable ;  and  he  bored  Strong's  guests  with  his  stories  when 
sober,  and  with  his  maudlin  tears  when  drunk. 

A  strange  and  motley  set  they  were,  these  friends  of  the  Chevalier ; 
and  though  Major  Pendennis  would  not  much  have  relished  their 
company,  Arthur  and  Warrington  liked  it  not  a  little.  There  was  a 
history  about  every  man  of  the  set :  they  seemed  all  to  have  had  their 
tides  of  luck  and  bad  fortune.  Most  of  them  had  wonderful  schemes 
and  speculations  in  their  pockets,  and  plenty  for  making  rapid  and 
extraordinary  fortunes.  Jack  Holt  had  been  in  Queen  Christina's 
army,  when  Ned  Strong  had  fought  on  the  other  side ;  and  was  now 
organising  a  little  scheme  for  smuggling  tobacco  into  London,  which 
must  bring  thirty  thousand  a  year  to  any  man  who  would  advance 
fifteen  hundred,  just  to  bribe  the  last  officer  of  the  Excise  who  held 
out,  and  had  wind  of  the  scheme.  Tom  Diver,  who  had  been  in  the 
Mexican  navy,  knew  of  a  specie-ship  which  had  been  sunk  in  the  first 
year  of  the  war,  with  three  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  dollars  on 
board,  and  a  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  pounds  in  bars  and  doub- 
loons. "  Give  me  eighteen  hundred  pounds,"  Tom  said,  "and  I'm  off 
to-morrow.  I  take  out  four  men,  and  a  diving-bell,  with  me ;  and  I 
return  in  ten  months  to  take  my  seat  in  Parliament,  by  Jove  !  and  to 
buy  back  my  family  estate."  Keiglitley,  the  manager  of  the  Tredyd- 
dlum  and  Polwheedle  Copper  Mines  (which  were  as  yet  under  water), 
besides  singing  as  good  a  second  as  any  professional  man,  and  besides 
the  Tredyddlum  Office,  had. a  Smyrna  Sponge  Company,  and  a  little 
quicJcsilver  operation  in  view,  which  would  set  him  straight  with  the 
world  yet.      Filby  had  been  everything:  a  corporal   of  drngonns,  a 


4,::  r£yB£Ny/S. 

field  preacher,  and  missionary-agent  for  converting  the  Irish ;  an  actor 
at  a  Greenwich  fair-booth,  in  front  of  which  his  father's  attorney  found 
liim  when  the  old  gentleman  died  and  left  him  that  famous  property, 
from  which  he  got  no  rents  now,  and  of  which  nobody  exactly  knew 
the  situation.  Added  to  these  was  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart.,  who 
liked  their  society,  though  he  did  not  much  add  to  its  amusements  by 
his  convivial  powers.  But  he  was  made  much  of  by  the  company 
now,  on  account  of  his  wealth  and  position  in  the  world.  He  told 
his  little  story  and  sang  his  little  song  or  two  with  great  affability; 
and  he  had  had  his  own  history,  too,  before  his  accession  to  good 
fortune ;  and  had  seen  the  inside  of  more  prisons  than  one,  and  written 
his  name  on  many  a  stamped  paper. 

When  Altamont  first  returned  from  Paris,  and  after  he  had  com- 
municated with  Sir  Francis  Clavering  from  the  hotel  at  which  he  had 
taken  up  his  quarters  (and  which  he  had  reached  in  a  very  denuded 
state,  considering  the  wealth  of  diamonds  and  rubies  with  which  this 
honest  man  was  entrusted).  Strong  was  sent  to  him  by  his  patron  the 
Baronet ;  paid  his  little  bill  at  the  inn,  and  invited  him  to  come  and 
sleep  for  a  night  or  two  at  the  chambers,  where  he  subsequently  took 
up  his  residence.  To  negotiate  with  this  man  was  very  well,  but  to 
have  such  a  person  settled  in  his  rooms,  and  to  be  constantly  burthened 
with  such  society,  did  not  suit  the  Chevaher's  taste  much ;  and  he 
grumbled  not  a  little  to  his  principal. 

"  I  wish  you  would  put  this  bear  into  somebody  else's  cage,"  he 
said  to  Clavering.  "  The  fellow's  no  gentleman.  I  don't  like  walking 
with  him.  He  dresses  himself  like  a  nigger  on  a  holiday.  I  took 
him  to  the  play  the  other  night  ;  and,  by  Jove,  sir,  he  abused  the 
actor  who  was  doing  the  part  of  villain  in  the  play,  and  swore  at  him 
so,  that  the  people  in  the  boxes  wanted  to  turn  him  out.  The  after- 
piece was  the  '  Brigand,'  v.here  Wallack  comes  in  wounded,  you  know, 
and  dies.     When  he  died,  AJtamont  began  to  cry  like  a  child,  and 

said  it  was  a  d d  shame,  and  cried  and  swore  so,  that  there  was 

another  row,  and  everybody  laughing.  Then  I  had  to  take  him  away, 
because  he  wanted  to  take  his  coat  off  to  one  fellow  who  laughed  at  him  ; 
and  bellowed  to  him  to  stand  up  like  a  man. — Who  is  he  ?  Where  the 
deuce  does  he  come  from  ?  You  had  best  tell  me  the  whole  story, 
Frank  ;  you  must  one  day.  You  and  he  have  robbed  a  church  together, 
that's  my  belief  You  had  better  get  it  off  your  mind  at  once,  Clavering, 
ind  tell  me  what  this  Altamont  is,  and  what  hold  he  has  over  you." 

"  Hang  him !  I  wish  he  was  dead  ! "  was  the  Baronet's  only  reply  ; 
and  his  countenance  became  so  gloomy  that  Strong  did  not  think  fit 
to  question  his  patron  any  further  at  that  time;  but  resolved,  if  need 
v/ere,  to  try  and  discover  for  himself  what  was  the  secret  tie  between 
Altamont  and  Chivcrintr. 


PENDEXNIS. 


413 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

IN   WHICH   THE   COLONEL   NARRATES   SOME   OF   HIS   ADVENTURES. 

"T^  ARLY  in  the  forenoon  of  the  day  aftei"  the  dinner  in  Grosvenor 
■*--»  Place,  at  which  Colonel  Altamont  had  chosen  to  appear,  the 
Colonel  emerged  from  his  chamber  in  the  upper  story  at  Shepherd's 
Inn,  and  entered  into  Strong's  sitting-room,  where  the  Chevalier  sate 
in  his  easy-chair  with  the  newspaper  and  his  cigar.  He  was  a  man 
who  made  his  tent  comfortable  wherever  he  pitched  it,  and  long  before 
Altamont's  arrival  had  done  justice  to  a  copious  breakfast  of  fried 
eggs  and  broiled  rashers,  which  Mr.  Grady  had  prepared  secundum 
arteiiz.  Good-humoured  and  talkative,  he  preferred  any  company 
rather  than  none ;  and  though  he  had  not  the  least  liking  for  his 
fellow-lodger,  and  would  not  have  grieved  to  hear  that  the  accident 
had  befallen  him  which  Sir  Francis  Clavering  desired  so  fervently, 
yet-  kept  on  fair  terms  with  him.  He  had  seen  Altamont  to  bed  with 
great  friendliness  on  the  night  previous,  and  taken  away  his  candle 
for  fear  of  accidents;  and  finding  a  spirit-bottle  empty,  upon  which  he 
had  counted  for  his  nocturnal  refreshment,  had  drunk  a  glass  of  water 
with  perfect  contentment  over  his  pipe,  before  he  turned  into  his  own 
crib  and  to  sleep.  That  enjoyment  never  failed  him :  he  had  always 
an  easy  temper,  a  faultless  digestion,  and  a  rosy  cheek ;  and  whether 
he  was  going  into  action  the  next  morning  or  to  prison  (and  both  had 
been  his  lot),  in  the  camp  or  the  Fleet,  the  worthy  Captain  snored 
healthfully  through  the  night,  and  woke  with  a  good  heart  and  appe- 
tite, for  the  struggles  or  difficulties  or  pleasures  of  the  day. 

The  first  act  of  Colonel  Altamont  was  to  bellow  to  Grady  for  a 
pint  of  pale  ale,  the  which  he  first  poured  into  a  pewter  flagon,  whence 
he  transferred  it  to  his  own  lips.  He  put  down  the  tankard  empty, 
drew  a  great  breath,  wiped  his  mouth  in  his  dressing-gown  (the 
difterence  of  the  colour  of  his  beard  from  his  dyed  whiskers  had  long 
struck  Captain  Strong,  who  had  seen,  too,  that  his  hair  was  fair  under 
his  black  wig,  but  made  no  remarks  upon  these  circumstances)— 
the  Colonel  drew  a  great  breath,  and  professed  himself  immensely 
refreshed  by  his  draught.  "  Nothing  like  that  beer,"  he  remarked, 
"when  the  coppers  are  hot.  Many  a  day  I've  drunk  a  dozen  of  Bass 
at  Calcutta,  and — and " 


^,^  PENDENNIS. 

''  And  at  Lucknow,  I  suppose,"  Strong  said,  with  a  laugh.  "  I 
got  the  beer  for  you  on  purpose  :  knew  you'd  want  it  after  last  night." 
And  the  Colonel  began  to  talk  about  his  adventures  of  the  preceding 
evening. 

"  I  cannot  help  myself,"  the  Colonel  said,  beating  his  head  with 
his  big  hand.  "  I'm  a  madman  when  I  get  the  liquor  on  board  me  ; 
and  ain't  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a  spirit-bottle.  When  I  once  begin  I 
can't  stop  till  I've  emptied  it ;  and  when  I've  swallowed  it,  Lord  knows 
what  I  say  or  what  I  don't  say.  I  dined  at  home  here  quite  quiet. 
Grady  gave  me  just  my  two  tumblers,  and  I  intended  to  pass  the 
evening  at  the  Black  and  Red  as  sober  as  a  parson.  Why  did  you 
leave  that  confounded  sample-bottle  of  Hollands  out  of  the  cupboard, 
Strong  ?  Grady  must  go  out,  too,  and  leave  me  the  kettle  a-boiling 
for  tea.  It  was  of  no  use,  I  couldn't  keep  away  from  it.  Washed  it 
all  down,  sir,  by  Jingo.  And  it's  my  belief  I  had  some  more,  too, 
afterwards  at  that  infernal  little  thieves'  den." 

"  What,  were  you  there,  too .'' "  Strong  asked,  "  and  before  you 
came  to  Grosvenor  Place  ?    That  was  beginning  betimes." 

"  Early  hours  to  be  drunk  and  cleared  out  before  nine  o'clock,  eh  ? 
But  so  it  was.  Yes,  like  a  great  big  fool,  I  must  go  there ;  and  found 
the  fellows  dining,  Blackland  and  young  Moss,  and  two  or  three  more 
of  the  thieves.  If  we'd  gone  to  Rouge  et  Noir,  I  must  have  won.  But 
we  didn't  try  the  black  and  red.  No,  hang  'em,  they  know'd  I'd  have 
beat  'em  at  that — I  must  have  beat  'em — I  can't  help  beating  'em,  I 
tell  you.  But  they  was  too  cunning  for  me.  That  rascal  Blackland 
got  the  bones  out,  and  we  played  hazard  on  the  dining-table.  And  I 
dropped  all  the  money  I  had  from  you  in  the  morning,  be  hanged  to 
my  luck.  It  \vas  that  that  set  me  wild,  and  I  suppose  I  must  have 
been  very  hot  about  the  head,  for  I  went  off  thinking  to  get  some 
more  money  from  Clavering,  I  recollect :  and  then— and  then  I  don't 
much  remember  what  happened  till  I  woke  this  morning,  and  heard 
old  Bows  at  No.  3  playing  on  his  planner." 

Strong  mused  for  a  while  as  he  lighted  his  cigar  with  a  coal.  "  I 
should  like  to  know  how  you  always  draw  money  from  Clavering, 
Colonel,"  he  said. 

The  Colonel  burst  out  with  a  laugh—"  Ha,  ha !  he  owes  it  me,"  he 
said. 

"  I  don't  know  that  that's  a  reason  with  Frank  for  paying,"  Strong 
answered.     "  He  owes  plenty  besides  you." 

"  Well,  he  gives  it  me  because  he  is  so  fond  of  me,"  the  other  said, 
with  the  same  grinning  sneer.  "  He  loves  me  like  a  brother;  you  know 
he  does.  Captain.— No  ?— He  don't  ?— Well,  perhaps  he  don't ;  and  if 
you  ask  me  no  questions,  perhaps  I'll  tell  you  no  lies,  Captain  Strong 
— put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it,  my  boy." 


PENDENNIS.  415 

"  But  I'll  give  up  that  confounded  brandy-bottle,"  the  Colonel 
continued,  after  a  pause.  "  I  must  give  it  up,  or  it'll  be  the  ruin 
of  me." 

"  It  makes  you  say  queer  things,"  said  the  Captain,  looking 
Altamont  hard  in  the  face.  "  Remember  what  you  said  last  night,  at 
Clavering's  table." 

"  Say  ?  What  did  I  say  ?  "  asked  the  other  hastily.  ■'  Did  I  split 
anything  1     Dammy,  Strong,  did  I  split  anything  ? " 

"Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I  will  tell  you  no  lies,"  the  Chevalier 
replied  on  his  part.  Strong  thought  of  the  words  Mr.  Altamont  had 
used,  and  his  abrupt  departure  from  the  Baronet's  dining-table  and 
house  as  soon  as  he  recognised  Major  Pendennis,  or  Captain  Beak,  as 
he  called  the  Major.  But  Strong  resolved  to  seek  an  explanation  of 
these  words  otherwise  than  from  Colonel  Altamont,  and  did  not  choose 
to  recall  them  to  the  other's  memory.  "  No,"  he  said  then,  "  you  didn't 
split  as  you  call  it.  Colonel ;  it  was  only  a  trap  of  mine  to  see  if  I 
could  make  you  speak ;  but  you  didn't  say  a  word  that  anybody  could 
comprehend — you  were  too  far  gone  for  that." 

So  much  the  better,  Altamont  thought;  and  heaved  a  great  sigh, 
as  if  relieved.  Strong  remarked  the  emotion,  but  took  no  notice,  and 
the  other  being  in  a  communicative  mood,  went  on  speaking. 

"  Yes,  I  own  to  my  faults,"  continued  the  Colonel.  "  There  is 
some  things  I  can't,  do  what  I  will,  resist:  a  bottle  of  brandy,  a 
box  of  dice,  and  a  beautiful  woman.  No  man  of  pluck  and  spirit, 
no  man  as  was  worth  his  salt  ever  could,  as  I  know  of.  There's 
hardly  p'raps  a  country  in  the  world  in  which  them  three  ain't  got  me 
into  trouble." 

"  Indeed  ? "  said  Strong. 

"  Yes,  from  the  age  of  fifteen,  when  I  ran  away  from  home,  and 
went  cabin-boy  on  board  an  Indiaman,  till  now,  when  I'm  fifty  year 
old,  pretty  nigh,  them  women  have  always  been  my  ruin.  Why,  it 
was  one  of  'em,  and  with  such  black  eyes  and  jewels  on  her  neck,  and 
sattens  and  ermine  like  a  duchess,  I  tell  you — it  was  one  of  'em  at 
Paris  that  swept  off  the  best  part  of  the  thousand  pound  as  I  went  off 
with.  Didn't  I  ever  tell  you  of  it  ?  Well,  1  don't  mi«d.  At  first  I  was 
very  cautious,  and  having  such  a  lot  of  money  kep'  it  close  and  lived 
like  a  gentleman — Colonel  Altamont,  Meurice's  hotel,  and  that  sort 
of  thing— never  played,  except  at  the  public  tables,  and  won  more 
than  I  lost.  Well,  sir,  there  was  a  chap  that  I  saw  at  the  hotel  and 
the  Palace  Royal  too,  a  regular  swell  fellow,  with  white  kid  gloves 
and  a  tuft  to  his  chin,  Bloundell-Bloundell  his  name  was,  as  I  made 
acquaintance  with  somehow,  and  he  asked  me  to  dinner,  and  took 
me  to  Madame  the  Countess  de  Foljambe's  soirees— such  a  woman. 
Strong !— such  an  eye !— such  a  hand  at  the  pianncr  !     Lor"  bless  you. 


4i6  PENDEi\XIS. 

she'd  sit  down  and  sing  to  you,  and  gaze  at  you,  until  she  warbled 
your  soul  out  of  your  body  a'most.  She  asked  me  to  go  to  her  evening 
parties  c\-er>'  Toosday ;  and  didn't  I  take  opera-boxes  and  give  her 
•dinners  at  the  restaurateur's,  that's  all  ?  But  I  had  a  run  of  luck  at 
the  tables,  and  it  was  not  in  the  dinners  and  opera-boxes  that  poor 
Clavering's  money  went.  No,  be  hanged  to  it,  it  was  swep'  off  in 
another  way.  One  night,  at  the  Countess's,  there  was  several  of  us 
at  supper — Mr.  Bloundell-Bloundell,  the  Honourable  Deuceace,  the 
Marky  de  la  Tour  de  Force — all  tip-top  nobs,  sir,  and  the  height  of 
fashion,  when  we  had  supper,  and  champagne,  you  may  be  sure,  in 
plenty,  and  then  some  of  that  confounded  brandy.  I  would  have  it 
— I  would  go  on  at  it — the  Countess  mixed  the  tumblers  of  punch  for 
me,  and  we  had  cards  as  well  as  grog  after  supper,  and  I  played  and 
drank  until  I  don't  know  what  I  did.  I  was  like  I  was  last  night.  I 
was  taken  away  and  put  to  bed  somehow,  and  never  woke  until  the 
next  day,  to  a  roaring  headache,  and  to  see  my  sdrvant,  who  said 
the  Honourable  Deuceace  wanted  to  see  me,  and  was  waiting  in  the 
sitting-room.  'How  are  you.  Colonel?'  says  he,  a-coming  into  my 
bed-room.  '  How  long  did  you  stay  last  night  after  I  went  away  ? 
The  play  was  getting  too  high  for  me,  and  I'd  lost  enough  to  you  for 
one  night.' " 

" '  To  me,'  says  I,  '  how's  that,  my  dear  feller  ? '  (for  though  he  was 
an  Earl's  son,  we  was  as  familiar  as  you  and  me).  '  How's  that,  my 
dear  feller?'  says  I,  and  he  tells  me,  that  he  had  borrowed  thirty  louis 
of  me  at  vingt-et-un,  that  he  gave  me  an  I  O  U  for  it  the  night  before, 
•which  I  put  into  my  pocket-book  before  he  left  the  room.  I  takes  out 
my  card-case — it  was  the  Countess  as  worked  it  for  me — and  there 
was  the  I  O  U  sure  enough,  and  he  paid  me  thirty  louis  in  gold  down 
upon  the  table  at  my  bed-side.  So  I  said  he  was  a  gentleman,  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  like  to  take  anything,  when  my  servant  should 
get  it  for  him;  but  the  Honourable  Deuceace  don't  drink  of  a  morn- 
ing, and  he  went  away  to  some  business  which  he  said  he  had. 

"  Presently  there's  another  ring  at  my  outer  door ;  and  this  time 
its  Bloundell-Bloundell  and  the  Marky  that  comes  in.  '  Bong  jour, 
Marky,'  says  I.  '  Good  morning — no  headache,'  says  he.  So  I  said 
I  had  one  ;  and  how  I  must  have  been  uncommon  queer  the  night 
afore ;  but  they  both  declared  I  didn't  show  no  signs  of  having  had 
too  much,  but  took  my  liquor  as  grave  as  a  judge. 

"'So,'  says  the  Marky,  'Deuceace  has  been  with  you;  we  met 
him  in  the  Palais  Royal  as  we  were  coming  from  breakfast.  Has  he 
settled  with  you  ?  Get  it  while  you  can :  he's  a  slippery  card ;  and  as 
he  won  three  ponies  of  Bloundell,  I  recommend  you  to  get  your  money 
while  he  has  some.' 

"  '  He  has  paid  me,'  says  I ;  '  but  I  knew  no  more  than  the  dead 


PENDENA/S.  417 

tliat  he  owed  me  anything,  and  don't  remember  a  bit  about  lending 
him  thirty  louis." 

"  The  Marky  and  Bloundell  looks  and  smiles  at  each  other  at 
this ;  and  Bloundell  says,  '  Colonel,  you  are  a  queer  feller.  No  man 
could  have  supposed,  from  your  manners,  that  you  had  tasted  anything 
stronger  than  tea  all  night,  and  yet  you  forget  things  in  the  morning. 
Come,  come, — tell  that  to  the  marines,  my  friend, — we  won't  have  it 
at  any  price.' 

"  '  En  effet;  says  the  Marky,  twiddling  his  little  black  mustachios 
in  the  chimney-glass,  and  making  a  lunge  or  two  as  he  used  to  do  at 
the  fencing-school.  (He  was  a  wonder  at  the  fencing-school,  and  I've 
seen  him  knock  down  the  image  fourteen  times  running  at  Lepage's.) 
'  Let  us  speak  of  affairs.  Colonel,  you  understand  that  affairs  of 
honour  are  best  settled  at  once:  perhaps  it  won't  be  inconvenient  to 
you  to  arrange  our  little  matters  of  last  night.' 

'"What  little  matters?'  says  I.  'Do  you  owe  me  any  money, 
Marky?' 

"  '  Bah  ! '  says  he  ;  '  do  not  let  us  have  any  more  jesting.  I  have 
your  note  of  hand  for  three  hundred  and  forty  louis.  La  void T  says 
he,  taking  out  a  paper  from  his  pocket-book. 

"  '  And  mine  for  two  hundred  and  ten,'  says  Bloundell- Bloundell, 
and  he  pulls  out  his  bit  of  paper. 

"  I  was  in  such  a  rage  of  wonder  at  this,  that  I  sprang  out  of  bed, 
and  wrapped  my  dressing-gown  round  me.  'Are  you  come  here  to 
make  a  fool  of  me?'  says  L  '  I  don't  owe  you  two  hundred,  or  two 
thousand,  or  two  louis ;  and  I  won't  pay  you  a  farthing.  Do  you 
suppose  you  can  catch  me  with  your  notes  of  hand  ?  I  laugh  at  'em, 
and  at  you ;  and  I  believe  you  to  be  a  couple ' 

"'A  couple  of  what?'  says  Mr.  Bloundell.  'You,  of  course,  are 
aware  that  we  are  a  couple  of  men  of  honour.  Colonel  Altamont,  and 
not  come  here  to  trifle  or  to  listen  to  abuse  from  you.  You  will  either 
pay  us  or  we  will  expose  you  as  a  cheat,  and  chastise  you  as  a  cheat, 
too,'  says  Bloundell. 

"  '  Oui,  parbleu^  says  the  Marky, — but  I  didn't  mind  him,  for  I 
could  have  thrown  the  little  fellow  out  of  the  window;  but  it  was 
different  with  Bloundell, — he  was  a  large  man,  that  weighs  three  stone 
more  than  me,  and  stands  six  inches  liigher,  and  I  think  he  could 
have  done  for  me. 

"  '  Monsieur  will  pay,  or  Monsieur  will  give  me  the  reason  why. 
I  believe  you're  little  better  than  a  polisson,  Colonel  Altamont,' — that 
was  the  phrase  he  used  " — Altamont  said  with  a  grin — "  and  I  got 
plenty  more  of  this  language  from  the  two  fellers,  and  was  in  the  thick 
of  the  row  with  them,  when  another  of  our  party  came  in.  This  was 
a  friend  of  mine — a  gent  I  had  met  at  Boulogne,  and  had  taken  to  the 

27 


4iS 


PENDENNIS. 


Countess's  myself.  And  as  he  hadn't  played  at  all  on  the  previous 
night,  and  had  actually  warned  me  against  Bloundell  and  the  others, 
I  told  the  story  to  him,  and  so  did  the  other  two. 

" '  I  am  very  sorry,'  says  he.  '  You  would  go  on  playing :  the 
Countess  entreated  you  to  discontinue.  These  gentlemen  offered 
repeatedly  to  stop.  It  was  you  that  insisted  on  the  large  stakes,  not 
they.'  In  fact  he  charged  dead  against  me;  and  when  the  two  others 
went  away,  he  told  me  how  the  Marky  would  shoot  me  as  sure  as  my 
name  was — was  what  it  is.  '  I  left  the  Countess  crying,  too,'  said  he. 
'  She  hates  these  two  men ;  she  has  warned  you  repeatedly  against 
them '  (which  she  actually  had  done,  and  often  told  me  never  to  play 
with  them),  'and  now,  Colonel,  I  have  left  her  in  hysterics  almost,  lest 
there  should  be  any  quarrel  between  you,  and  that  confounded  Marky 
should  put  a  bullet  through  your  head.  It's  my  belief,'  says  my  friend, 
•  that  that  woman  is  distractedly  in  love  with  you.' 

"  '  Do  you  think  so  ? '  says  I ;  upon  which  my  friend  told  me  how 
she  had  actually  gone  down  on  her  knees  to  him  and  said,  '  Save 
Colonel  Altamont ! " 

"  As  soon  as  I  was  dressed,  I  went  and  called  upon  that  lovely 
woman.  She  gave  a  shriek  and  pretty  near  fainted  when  she  saw  me. 
She  called  me  Ferdinand, — I'm  blest  if  she  didn't." 

"  I  thought  your  name  was  Jack,"  said  Strong,  with  a  laugh ;  at 
which  the  Colonel  blushed  very  much  behind  his  dyed  whiskers. 

"A  man  may  have  more  names  than  one,  mayn't  he.  Strong?" 
Altamont  asked.  "  When  I'm  with  a  lady,  I  like  to  take  a  good  one. 
She  called  me  by  my  Christian  name.  She  cried  fit  to  break  your 
heart.  I  can't  stand  seeing  a  woman  cry — never  could — not  whilst 
I'm  fond  of  her.  She  said  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  my  losing  so 
much  money  in  her  house.  Wouldn't  I  take  her  diamonds  and  neck- 
laces, and  pay  part  ? 

"  I  swore  I  wouldn't  touch  a  farthing's  worth  of  her  jewellery-,  which 
perhaps  I  did  not  think  was  worth  a  great  deal, — but  what  can  a  woman 
do  more  than  give  you  her  all  ?  That's  the  sort  I  like,  and  I  know 
there's  plenty  of  "em.  And  I  told  her  to  be  easy  about  the  money,  for 
I  would  not  pay  one  single  farthing. 

"'Then  they'll  shoot  you,'  says  she;  'they'll  kill  my  Ferdi- 
nand.' 

"They'll  kill  my  Jack  wouldn't  have  sounded  well  in  French," 
Strong  said,  laughing. 

"  Never  mind  about  names,"  said  the  other,  sulkily :  "  a  man  of 
honour  may  take  any  name  he  chooses,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  go  on  with  your  story,"  said  Strong.  "  She  said  they  would 
kiU  you." 

'•'No,'  says  I,  'they  won't:  for  I   will  not  let  that  scamp  of  a 


PENDENNIS.  419 

jMavquis  send  me  out  of  the  world;  and  if  he  lays  a  hand  on  me,  I'll 
brain  him,  Marquis  as  he  is.' 

"  At  this  the  Countess  shrank  back  from  me  as  if  I  had  said  some- 
thing very  shocking.  'Do  I  understand  Colonel  Altamont  aright?' 
says  she ;  '  and  that  a  British  officer  refuses  to  meet  any  person  who 
provokes  him  to  the  field  of  honour  ? ' 

"  '  Field  of  honour  be  hanged,  Countess  ! '  says  I.  '  You  would  not 
have  me  be  a  target  for  that  little  scoundrel's  pistol  practice.' 

"  '  Colonel  Altamont,'  says  the  Countess,  '  I  thought  you  were  a 
man  of  honour — I  thought,  I — but  no  matter.  Good-bye,  sir.' — And 
she  was  sweeping  out  of  the  room,  her  voice  regular  choking  in  her 
pocket-handkerchief. 

"  '  Countess !'  says  I,  rushing  after  her  and  seizing  her  hand. 

" '  Leave  me,  Monsieur  le  Colonel,'  says  she,  shaking  me  off,  'my 
father  was  a  General  of  the  Grand  Army.  A  soldier  should  know  how 
to  pay  all  his  debts  of  honour.' 

"  What  could  I  do  ?  Everybody  was  against  me.  Caroline  said 
I  had  lost  the  money :  though  I  didn't  remember  a  syllable  about 
the  business.  I  had  taken  Deuceace's  money  too;  but  then  it  was 
because  he  offered  it  to  me,  you  know,  and  that's  a  different  thing. 
Every  one  of  these  chaps  was  a  man  of  fashion  and  honour ;  and  the 
Marky  and  the  Countess  of  the  first  families  in  France.  And  by 
Jove,  sir,  rather  than  offend  her,  I  paid  the  money  up :  five  hundred 
and  sixty  gold  Napoleons,  by  Jove :  besides  three  hundred  which  I 
lost  when  I  had  my  revenge. 

"  And  I  can't  tell  you  at  this  minute  whether  I  was  done  or  not," 
concluded  the  Colonel,  musing.  "  Sometimes  I  think  I  was  :  but  then 
Caroline  was  so  fond  of  me.  That  woman  would  never  have  seen  me 
done :  never,  I'm  sure  she  wouldn't :  at  least,  if  she  would,  I'm  deceived 
in  woman." 

Any  further  revelations  of  his  past  life  which  Altamont  might  have 
been  disposed  to  confide  to  his  honest  comrade  the  Chevalier,  were 
interrupted  by  a  knocking  at  the  outer  door  of  their  chambers ;  which, 
when  opened  by  Grady  the  servant,  admitted  no  less  a  person  than 
Sir  Francis  Clavering  into  the  presence  of  the  two  worthies. 

"  The  Governor,  by  Jove,"  cried  Strong,  regarding  the  arrival  of  his 
patron  with  surprise.  "  What's  brought  you  here  ?  "  growled  Altamont, 
looking  sternly  from  under  his  heavy  eyebrows  at  the  Baronet.  "  It's 
no  good,  I  warrant."  And  indeed,  good  very  seldom  brought  Sir 
Francis  Clavering  into  that  or  any  other  place. 

Whenever  he  came  into  Shepherd's  Inn,  it  was  money  that  brought 
the  unlucky  Baronet  into  those  precincts ;  and  there  was  commonly  a 
gentleman  of  the  money-dealing  world  in  waiting  for  him  at  Strong's 
chambers,  or  at  Campion's  below ;  and  a  question  of  bills  to  negotiate 


^3o  PENDENNIS. 

or  to  renew.  Clavering  was  a  man  who  had  never  looked  his  debts 
fairly  in  the  face,  familiar  as  he  had  been  with  them  all  his  life;  as 
Ion'-'  as  he  could  renew  a  bill,  his  mind  was  easy  regarding  it:  and  he 
would  sign  almost  anything  for  to-morrow,  provided  to-day  could  be 
left  unmolested.  He  was  a  man  whom  scarcely  any  amount  of  fortune 
could  have  benefited  permanently,  and  who  was  made  to  be  ruined,  to 
cheat  small  tradesmen,  to  be  the  victim  of  astuter  sharpers :  to  be 
niggardly  and  reckless,  and  as  destitute  of  honesty  as  the  people  who 
cheated  him,  and  a  dupe,  chieily  because  he  was  too  mean  to  be  a  suc- 
cessful knave.  He  had  told  more  lies  in  his  time,  and  undergone 
more  baseness  of  stratagem  in  order  to  stave  off  a  small  debt,  or  to 
swindle  a  poor  creditor,  than  would  have  sufficed  to  make  a  fortune 
for  a  braver  rogue.  He  was  abject  and  a  shuffler  in  the  very  height  of 
his  prosperity.  Had  he  been  a  Crown  Prince — he  could  not  have  been 
more  weak,  useless,  dissolute  or  ungrateful.  He  could  not  move 
through  life  except  leaning  on  the  arm  of  somebody ;  and  yet  he  never 
had  an  agent  but  he  mistrusted  him;  and  marred  any  plans  which 
might  be  arranged  for  his  benefit,  by  secretly  acting  against  the 
people  whom  he  employed.  Strong  knew  Clavering,  and  judged  him 
quite  correctly.  It  was  not  as  friends  that  this  pair  met;  but  the 
Chevalier  worked  for  his  principal,  as  he  would  when  in  the  army 
have  pursued  a  harassing  march,  or  undergone  his  part  in  the  danger 
and  privations  of  a  siege ;  because  it  was  his  duty,  and  because 
he  had  agreed  to  it.  "  What  is  it  he  wants .' "  thought  the  two 
officers  of  the  Shepherd's  Inn  garrison,  when  the  Baronet  came 
among  them. 

His  pale  face  expressed  extreme  anger  and  irritation.  "  So,  sir,"' 
he  said,  addressing  Altamont,  "  you've  been  at  your  old  tricks." 

"  Which  of 'um.'"  asked  Altamont,  with  a  sneer. 

"  You  have  been  at  the  Rouge  et  Noir :  you  were  there  last  night," 
cried  the  Baronet. 

"  How  do  you  know,— were  you  there }  "  the  other  said.  "  I  was 
at  the  Club :  but  it  wasn't  on  the  colours  I  played, — ask  the  Captain, 
—I've  been  teUing  him  of  it.  It  was  with  the  bones.  It  was  at 
hazard.  Sir  Francis,  upon  my  word  and  honour  it  was;"  and  he 
looked  at  the  Baronet  with  a  knowing  humourous  mock  humility, 
which  only  seemed  to  make  the  other  more  angry. 

"  What  the  deuce  do  I  care,  sir,  how  a  man  like  you  loses  his 
money,  and  whether  it  is  at  hazard  or  roulette  ? "  screamed  the 
Baronet,  with  a  multiplicity  of  oaths,  and  at  the  top  of  his  voice. 
'■  What  I  will  not  have,  sir,  is  that  you  should  use  my  name,  or  couple 
it  with  yours.— Damn  him.  Strong,  why  don't  you  keep  him  in  better 
order  ?  I  tell  you  he  has  gone  and  used  my  name  again,  sir,— drawn 
a  bill  upon  me,  and  lost  the  money  on  the  table— I  can't  stand  it— I 


PENDENNIS.  421 

won't  stand  it.  Flesh  and  blood  won't  bear  it — Do  you  know  how 
much  I  have  paid  for  you,  sir  ?  " 

"  This  was  only  a  very  little  'un,  Sir  Francis — only  fifteen  pound, 
Captain  Strong,  they  wouldn't  stand  another :  and  it  oughtn't  to  anger 
you,  Governor.  Why  it's  so  trifling  I  did  not  even  mention  it  to 
Strong, — did  I  now,  Captain  ?  I  protest  it  had  quite  slipped  my 
memory,  and  all  on  account  of  that  confounded  liquor  I  took." 

"  Liquor  or  no  liquor,  sir,  it  is  no  business  of  mine.  I  don't  care 
what  you  drink,  or  where  you  drink  it — only  it  shan't  be  in  my  house. 
And  I  will  not  have  you  breaking  into  my  house  of  a  night,  and  a 
fellow  like  you  intruding  himself  on  my  company :  how  dared  you 
show  yourself  in  Grosvenor  Place  last  night,  sir, — and — and  what  do 
you  suppose  my  friends  must  think  of  me  when  they  see  a  man  of  your 
sort  walking  into  my  dining-room  uninvited,  and  drunk,  and  calling 
for  liquor  as  if  you  were  the  master  of  the  house." 

"  They'll  think  you  know  some  very  queer  sort  of  people,  I  dare 
say,"  Altamont  said  with  impenetrable  good-humour.  "  Look  here. 
Baronet,  I  apologise  ;  on  my  honour  I  do,  and  ain't  an  apology  enough 
between  two  gentlemen  ?  It  was  a  strong  measure  I  own,  walking 
into  your  cuddy,  and  calling  for  drink  as  if  I  was  the  Captain:  but  I 
had  had  too  much  before,  you  see,  that's  why  I  wanted  some  more  ; 
nothing  can  be  more  simple — and  it  was  because  they  wouldn't  give 
me  no  more  money  upon  your  name  at  the  Black  and  Red,  that  I 
thought  I  would  come  down  and  speak  to  you  about  it.  To  refuse  me 
was  nothing :  but  to  refuse  a  bill  drawn  on  you  that  have  been  such  a 
friend  to  the  shop,  and  are  a  baronet  and  a  member  of  parliament, 
and  a  gentleman  and  no  mistake^Damme,  it's  ungrateful. ' 

"  By  heavens  if  ever  you  do  it  again  — If  ever  you  dare  to  show 
yourself  in  my  house ;  or  give  my  name  at  a  gambling-house  or  at  any 
other  house,  by  Jove — at  any  other  house — or  give  any  reference  at 
all  to  me,  or  speak  to  me  in  the  street,  by  Gad,  or  anywhere  else 
until  I  speak  to  you — I'll  disclaim  you  altogether — 1  won't  give  you 
another  shilling." 

"  Governor,  don't  be  provoking,"  Altamont  said,  surlily.  "  Don't 
talk  to  me  about  daring  to  do  this  thing  or  t'other,  or  wlicn  my  dander 
is  up  it's  the  very  thing  to  urge  me  on.  I  oughtn't  to  have  come  last 
night,  I  know  I  oughtn't :  but  I  told  you  1  was  drunk,  and  that  ought 
to  be  sufficient  between  gentleman  and  gentleman." 

"  You  a  gentleman !  dammy,  sir,"  said  the  Baronet,  "  how  dares  a 
fellow  like  you  to  call  himself  a  gentleman  ? " 

"I  ain't  a  baronet,  I  know,"  growled  the  other;  "and  I've  for- 
gotten how  to  be  a  gentleman  almost  now,  but — but  I  was  one  once, 
and  my  father  was  one,  and  I'll  not  have  this  sort  of  talk  from  you, 
Sir  F,  Clavering,  that's  flat.     I  want  to  go  abroad  again.     Why  don't 


^22  PENDENNIS. 

you  come  down  with  the  money,  and  let  me  go  ?  Why  the  devil  are 
you  to  be  rolHng  in  riches,  and  me  to  have  none  ?  Why  should  you 
have  a  house  and  a  table  covered  with  plate,  and  mc:  be  in  a  garret 
here  in  this  beggarly  Shepherd's  Inn  ?  We're  partners,  ain't  we  ? 
I've  as  good  a  right  to  be  rich  as  you  have,  haven't  I  ?  Tell  the  stor}- 
to  Strong  here,  if  you  like ;  and  ask  him  to  be  umpire  between  us.  I 
don't  mind  letting  my  secret  out  to  a  man  that  won't  split.  Look  here, 
Strong — perhaps  you  guess  the  story  already — the  fact  is,  me  and  the 
Governor " 

"  D — ,  hold  your  tongue,"  shrieked  out  the  Baronet  in  a  fury. 
"  You  shall  have  the  money  as  soon  as  I  can  get  it.  I  ain't  made  of 
money.  I'm  so  pressed  and  badgered,  I  don't  know  where  to  turn.  I 
shall  go  mad ;  by  Jove,  I  shall.  I  wish  I  was  dead,  for  I'm  the  most 
miserable  brute  alive.  I  say,  Mr.  Altamont,  don't  mind  me.  When 
I'm  out  of  health — and  I'm  devilish  bilious  this  morning — hang  me,  I 
abuse  ever)^body,  and  don't  know  what  I  say.  Excuse  me  if  I've 
offended  you.  I — I'll  try  and  get  that  little  business  done.  Strong 
shall  try.  Upon  my  word  he  shall.  And  I  say.  Strong,  my  boy,  I  want 
to  speak  to  you.     Come  into  the  office  for  a  minute." 

Almost  all  Clavering's  assaults  ended  in  this  ignominious  way, 
and  in  a  shameful  retreat.  Altamont  sneered  after  the  Baronet  as 
he  left  the  room,  and  entered  into  the  office,  to  talk  privately  with 
his  factotum. 

"  What  is  the  matter  now .'"  the  latter  asked  of  him.  "  It's  the  old 
story,  I  suppose." 

"  D —  it,  yes,"  the  Baronet  said.  '"  I  dropped  two  hundred  in 
ready  money  at  the  Little  Coventry  last  night,  and  gave  a  cheque  for 
three  hundred  more.  On  her  ladyship's  bankers,  too,  for  to-morrow ; 
and  I  must  meet  it,  for  there'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  else.  The  last  time 
she  paid  my  play-debts,  I  swore  I  would  not  touch  a  dice-box  again, 
and  she'll  keep  her  word.  Strong,  and  dissolve  partnership,  if  I  go  on. 
I  wish  I  had  three  hundred  a  year,  and  was  away.  At  a  German 
watering-place  you  can  do  devilish  well  with  three  hundred  a  year. 
But  my  habits  are  so  d—  reckless :  I  wish  I  was  in  the  Serpentine. 
I  wish  I  was  dead,  by  Gad  I  wish  I  was.  I  wish  I  had  never  touched 
those  confounded  bones.  I  had  such  a  run  of  luck  last  night,  with 
five  for  the  main,  and  seven  to  five  all  night,  until  those  ruffians 
wanted  to  pay  me  with  Altamont's  biU  upon  me.  The  luck  turned 
from  that  minute.  Never  held  the  box  again  for  three  mains,  and 
came  away  cleared  out,  leaving  that  infernal  cheque  behind  me.  How 
shall  I  pay  it !  Blackland  won't  hold  it  over.  Hulker  and  Bullock 
will  write  about  it  directly  to  her  ladyship.  By  Jove,  Ned.  I'm  the 
most  miserable  brute  in  all  England." 

It   was  necessary  for  Ned  to  devise  some   plan   to  console  the 


PENDENms.  423 

Baronet  under  this  pressure  of  grief;  and  no  doubt  he  found  the 
means  of  procuring  a  loan  for  his  patron,  for  he  was  closeted  at 
Mr.  Campion's  offices  that  day  for  some  time.  Altamont  had  once 
more  a  guinea  or  two  in  his  pocket,  with  a  promise  of  a  farther  settle- 
ment ;  and  the  Baronet  had  no  need  to  wish  himself  dead  for  the  next 
two  or  three  months  at  least.  And  Strong,  putting  together  what  he 
had  learned  from  the  Colonel  and  Sir  Francis,  began  to  form  in  his 
own  mind  a  pretty  accurate  opinion  as  to  the  nature  of  the  tie  which 
bound  the  two  men  together. 


424  PENDEANJS. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

A   CHAPTER   OF   CONVERSATIONS. 

EVERY  day,  after  the  entertainments  at  Grosvenor  Place  and 
Greenwich,  of  which  we  have  seen  Major  Pendennis  partake, 
the  worthy  gentleman's  friendship  and  cordiality  for  the  Clavering 
family  seemed  to  increase.  His  calls  were  frequent  ;  his  attentions  to 
the  lady  of  the  house  unremitting.  An  old  man  about  town,  he  had 
the  good  fortune  to  be  received  in  many  houses,  at  which  a  lady  of 
Lady  Clavering's  distinction  ought  also  to  be  seen.  Would  her  lady- 
ship not  like  to  be  present  at  the  grand  entertainment  at  Gaunt  House  ? 
There  was  to  be  a  very  pretty  breakfast  ball  at  Viscount  Marrowfat's, 
at  Fulham.  Everybody  was  to  be  there  (including  august  personages 
of  the  highest  rank),  and  there  was  to  be  a  Watteau  quadrille,  in 
which  Miss  Amory  would  surely  look  charming.  To  these  and  other 
amusements  the  obsequious  old  gentleman  kindly  offered  to  conduct 
Lady  Clavering,  and  was  also  ready  to  make  himself  useful  to  the 
Baronet  in  any  way  agreeable  to  the  latter. 

In  spite  of  his  present  station  and  fortune,  the  world  persisted  in 
looking  rather  coldly  upon  Clavering,  and  strange  suspicious  rumours 
followed  him  about.  He  was  blackballed  at  two  clubs  in  succession. 
In  the  House  of  Commons,  he  only  conversed  with  a  few  of  the  most 
disreputable  members  of  that  famous  body,  having  a  happy  knack  of 
choosing  bad  society,  and  adapting  himself  naturally  to  it,  as  other 
people  do  to  the  company  of  their  betters.  To  name  all  the  senators 
with  whom  Clavering  consorted,  would  be  invidious.  We  may  men- 
tion only  a  few.  There  was  Captain  Raff,  the  honourable  member 
for  Epsom,  who  retired  after  the  last  Goodwood  races,  having  accepted, 
as  Mr.  Hotspur,  the  whip  of  the  party,  said,  a  mission  to  the  Levant  ; 
there  was  Hustingson,  the  patriotic  member  for  Islington,  whose 
voice  is  never  heard  now  denunciating  corruption,  since  his  appoint- 
ment to  the  Governorship  of  Coventry  Island ;  there  was  Bob 
Freeny,  of  the  Booterstown  Freenys,  who  is  a  dead  shot,  and  of 
whom  we  therefore  wish  to  speak  with  every-  respect  ;  and  of  all  these 
gentlemen,  with  whom  in  the  course  of  his  professional  duty  Mr. 
Hotspur  had  to  confer,  there  was  none  for  whom  he  had  a  more 
thorough  contempt  and  dislike  than  for  Sir  Francis  Clavering.  the  rcpre- 


PENDENNIS. 


425 


sentative  of  an  ancient  race,  who  had  sat  for  their  own  borough  of 
Clavering  time  out  of  mind  in  the  House.  "  If  that  man  is  wanted  for  a 
division,"  Hotspur  said,  "  ten  to  one  he  is  to  be  found  in  a  hell.  He 
was  educated  in  the  Fleet,  and  he  has  not  heard  the  end  of  Newgate 
yet,  take  my  word  for  it.  He'll  muddle  away  the  Begum's  fortune  at 
thimble-rig,  be  caught  picking  pockets,  and  finish  on  board  the  hulks." 
And  if  the  high-born  Hotspur,  with  such  an  opinion  of  Clavering, 
could  yet  from  professional  reasons  be  civil  to  him,  why  should  not 
Major  Pendennis  also  have  reasons  of  his  own  for  being  attentive  to 
this  unlucky  gentleman  ? 

"  He  has  a  very  good  cellar  and  a  very  good  cook,"  the  Major 
said  :  "  as  long  as  he  is  silent  he  is  not  offensive,  and  he  very  seldom 
speaks.  If  he  chooses  to  frequent  gambling-tables,  and  lose  his 
money  to  blacklegs,  what  matters  to  me?  Don't  look  too  curiously 
into  any  man's  affairs,  Pen  my  boy  ;  every  fellow  has  some  cupboard 
in  his  house,  begad,  which  he  would  not  like  you  and  me  to  peep 
into.  Why  should  we  try,  when  the  rest  of  the  house  is  open  to  us  ? 
And  a  devilish  good  house,  too,  as  you  and  I  know.  And  if  the 
man  of  the  family  is  not  all  one  could  wish,  the  women  are  excellent. 
The  Begum  is  not  over-refined,  but  as  kind  a  woman  as  ever  lived, 
and  devilish  clever  too  ;  and  as  for  the  little  Blanche,  you  know  my 
opinion  about  her,  you  rogue  ;  you  know  my  belief  is  that  she  is 
sweet  on  you,  and  would  have  you  for  the  asking.  But  you  are 
growing  such  a  great  man,  that  I  suppose  you  won't  be  content 
under  a  Duke's  daughter — hey,  sir?  I  recommend  you  to  ask  one 
of  them,  and  try." 

Perhaps  Pen  was  somewhat  intoxicated  by  his  success  in  the 
world ;  and  it  may  also  have  entered  into  the  young  man's  mind  (his 
uncle's  perpetual  hints  serving  not  a  little  to  encourage  the  notion) 
that  Miss  Ainory  was  tolerably  well  disposed  to  renew  the  little  flirta- 
tion which  had  been  carried  on  in  the  early  days  of  both  of  them,  by 
the  banks  of  the  rural  Brawl.  But  he  was  little  disposed  to  marriage, 
he  said,  at  that  moment,  and,  adopting  some  of  his  uncle's  worldly 
tone,  spoke  rather  contemptuously  of  the  institution,  and  in  favour  of 
a  bachelor  life. 

"You  are  very  happy,  sir,"  said  he,  "and  you  get  on  very  well 
alone,  and  so  do  I.  With  a  wife  at  my  side,  I  should  lose  my  place  in 
society;  and  I  don't,  for  my  part,  much  fancy  retiring  into  the  country 
with  a  Mrs.  Pendennis;  or  taking  my  wife  into  lodgings  to  be  waited 
upon  by  the  servant-of-all-work.  The  period  of  my  little  illusions  is 
over.  You  cured  me  of  my  first  love,  who  certainly  was  a  fool,  and 
Avould  have  had  a  fool  for  her  husband,  and  a  very  sulky  discontented 
husband  too  if  she  had  taken  me.  We  young  fellows  live  fast,  sir; 
and  I  feel  as  old  at  five-and-twenty  as  many  of  the  old  fo the  old 


^26  PEA'DENNJii. 

bachelors— whom  I  see  in  the  bow-window  at  Bays's.  Don't  look, 
offended,  I  only  mean  that  I  am  blas^  about  love  matters,  and  that  I 
could  no'  more  fan  myself  into  a  flame  for  Miss  Amory  now,  than  I 
could  adore  Lady  Mirabel  over  again.  I  wish  I  could ;  I  rather  like 
Sir  Mirabel  for  his  infatuation  about  her,  and  think  his  passion  is  the 
most  respectable  part  of  his  life." 

"  Sir  Charles  Mirabel  was  always  a  theatrical  man,  sir,"  the  Major 
said,  annoyed  that  his  nephew  should  speak  flippantly  of  any  person  of 
Sir  Charles's  rank  and  station.  "  He  has  been  occupied  with  thea- 
tricals since  his  early  days.  He  acted  at  Carlton  House  when  he  was 
Page  to  the  Prince ; — he  has  been  mixed  up  with  that  sort  of  thing : 
he  could  afford  to  marry  whom  he  chooses ;  and  Lady  Mirabel  is  a 
most  respectable  woman,  received  everywhere — everj'where,  mind. 
The  Duchess  of  Connaught  receives  her,  Lady  Rockminster  receives 
her — it  doesn't  become  young  fellows  to  speak  lightly  of  people  in  that 
station.  There's  not  a  more  respectable  woman  in  England  than  Lady 
Mirabel : — and  the  old  fogies,  as  you  call  them,  at  Bays's,  are  some  of 
the  first  gentlemen  in  England,  of  whom  you  youngsters  had  best  learn 
a  Httle  manners,  and  a  little  breeding,  and  a  little  modesty."  And  the 
Major  began  to  think  that  Pen  was  growing  exceedingly  pert  and 
conceited,  and  that  the  world  made  a  great  deal  too  much  of  him. 

The  Major's  anger  amused  Pen.  He  studied  his  uncle's  peculiari- 
ties with,  a  constant  relish,  and  was  always  in  a  good  humour  with  his 
worldly  old  Mentor.  "  I  am  a  youngster  of  fifteen  years'  standing, 
sir,"  he  said,  adroitly,  "  and  if  you  think  that  we  are  disrespectful,  you 
should  see  those  of  the  present  generation.  A  proteg^  of  yours  came 
to  breakfast  with  me  the  other  day.  You  told  me  to  ask  him,  and  I 
did  it  to  please  you.  We  had  a  day's  sights  together,  and  dined  at 
the  club,  and  went  to  the  play.  He  said  the  wine  at  the  Polyanthus 
was  not  so  good  as  Ellis's  wine  at  Richmond,  smoked  Warrington's 
Cavendish  after  breakfast,  and  when  I  gave  him  a  sovereign  as  a  fare- 
well token,  said  he  had  plenty  of  them,  but  would  take  it  to  show  he 
wasn't  proud." 

"  Did  he  ? — did  you  ask  young  Clavering  ? "  cried  the  Major, 
appeased  at  once — "  fine  boy,  rather  wild,  but  a  fine  boy — parents 
like  that  sort  of  attention,  and  you  can't  do  better  than  pay  it  to  our 
worthy  friends  of  Grosvenor  Place.  And  so  you  took  him  to  the  play 
and  tipped  him  ?  That  was  right,  sir,  that  was  right : "  with  which 
Mentor  quitted  Telemachus,  thinking  that  the  young  men  were  not  so 
very  bad,  and  that  he  should  make  something  of  that  fellow  yet. 

As  Master  Clavering  grew  into  years  and  stature,  he  became  too 
strong  for  the  authority  of  his  fond  parents  and  governess  :  and  rather 
governed  them    than  permitted  himself  to  be   led    by  their  orders. 


PENDENA^IS.  427 

With  his  papa  he  was  silent  and  sulky,  seldom  making  his  appearance, 
however,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  that  gentleman ;  with  his  mamma 
he  roared  and  fought  when  any  contest  between  them  arose  as  to  the 
gratification  of  his  appetite,  or  other  wish  of  his  heart ;  and  in  his  dis- 
putes with  his  governess  over  his  book,  he  kicked  that  quiet  creature's 
shins  so  fiercely,  that  she  was  entirely  overmastered  and  subdued  by 
him.  And  he  would  have  so  treated  his  sister  Blanche,  too,  and  did 
on  one  or  two  occasions  attempt  to  prevail  over  her ;  but  she  showed 
an  immense  resolution  and  spirit  on  her  part,  and  boxed  his  ears  so 
soundly,  that  he  forbore  from  molesting  Miss  Amory,  as  he  did  the 
governess  and  his  mamma,  and  his  mamma's  maid. 

At  length,  when  the  family  came  to  London,  Sir  Francis  gave 
forth  his  opinion,  that  "  the  little  beggar  had  best  be  sent  to  school." 
Accordingly  the  young  son  and  heir  of  the  house  of  Clavering  was 
despatched  to  the  Rev.  Otto  Rose's  establishment  at  Twickenham, 
where  young  noblemen  and  gentlemen  were  received  preparatory  to 
their  introduction  to  the  great  English  public  schools. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  Master  Clavering  in  his  scholastic 
career ;  the  paths  to  the  Temple  of  Learning  were  made  more  easy  to 
him  than  they  were  to  some  of  us  of  earlier  generations.  He  advanced 
towards  that  fane  in  a  carriage-and-four,  so  to  speak,  and  might  halt 
and  take  refreshment  almost  whenever  he  pleased.  He  wore  varnished 
boots  from  the  earliest  period  of  youth,  and  had  cambric  handker- 
chiefs and  lemon-coloured  kid  gloves,  of  the  smallest  size  ever 
manufactured  by  Privat.  They  dressed  regularly  at  Mr.  Rose's  to 
come  down  to  dinner ;  the  young  gentlemen  had  shawl  dressing- 
gowns,  fires  in  their  bed-rooms,  horse  and  carriage  e.xercise  occasion- 
ally, and  oil  for  their  hair.  Corporal  punishment  was  altogether 
dispensed  with  by  the  Principal,  who  thought  that  moral  discipline 
was  entirely  sufficient  to  lead  youth;  and  the  boys  were  so  rapidly 
advanced  in  many  branches  of  learning,  that  they  acquired  the  art  of 
drinking  spirits  and  smoking  cigars,  even  before  they  were  old  enough 
to  enter  a  public  school.  Young  Frank  Clavering  stole  his  father's 
Havannahs,  and  conveyed  them  to  school,  or  smoked  them  in  the 
stables,  at  a  surprisingly  early  period  of  life,  and  at  ten  years  old 
drank  his  champagne  almost  as  stoutly  as  any  whiskered  cornet  of 
dragoons  could  do. 

When  this  interesting  youth  came  home  for  his  vacations.  Major 
Pendennis  was  as  laboriously  civil  and  gracious  to  him  as  he  was  to 
the  rest  of  the  family ;  although  the  boy  had  rather  a  contempt  for  old 
Wigsby,  as  the  Major  was  denominated, — mimicked  him  behind  his 
back,  as  the  polite  Major  bowed  and  smirked  to  Lady  Clavering  or 
Miss  Amory ;  and  drew  rude  caricatures,  such  as  arc  designed  by 
ingenious  youths,  in  which  the  Major's  wig,  his  nose,  his  tie,  &c.  were 


428  PENDEXNIS. 

represented  with  artless  exaggeration.  Untiring  in  his  efforts  to  be 
agreeable,  the  Major  wished  that  Pen,  too,  should  take  particular 
notice  of  this  child;  incited  Arthur  to  invite  him  to  his  chambers,  to 
give  him  a  dinner  at  the  club,  to  take  him  to  Madame  Tussaud's,  the 
Tower,  the  play,  and  so  forth,  and  to  tip  him,  as  the  phrase  is,  at  the 
end  of  the  day's  pleasures.  Arthur,  who  was  good-natured  and  fond 
of  children,  went  through  all  these  ceremonies  one  day ;  had  the  boy 
to  breakfast  at  the  Temple,  where  he  made  the  most  contemptuous 
remarks  regarding  the  furniture,  the  crocker)',  and  the  tattered  state  of 
Warrington's  dressing-gown ;  and  smoked  a  short  pipe,  and  recounted 
the  history  of  a  fight  between  Tuffy  and  Long  Biggings,  at  Rose's, 
greatly  to  the  edification  of  the  two  gentlemen  his  hosts. 

As  the  Major  rightly  predicted,  Lady  Clavering  was  very  grateful 
for  Arthur's  attention  to  the  boy ;  more  grateful  than  the  lad  himself, 
who  took  attentions  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  verj'  likely  had  more 
sovereigns  in  his  pocket  than  poor  Pen,  who  generously  gave  him  one 
of  his  own  slender  stock  of  those  coins. 

The  Major,  with  the  sharp  eyes  with  which  Nature  endowed  him, 
and  with  the  glasses  of  age  and  experience,  watched  this  boy,  and 
surveyed  his  position  in  the  family  without  seeming  to  be  rudely 
curious  about  their  affairs.  But,  as  a  country  neighbour,  one  who  had 
many  family  obligations  to  the  Claverings,  an  old  man  of  the  world, 
he  took  occasion  to  find  out  what  Lady  Clavering^s  means  were,  how 
her  capital  was  disposed,  and  what  the  boy  was  to  inherit.  And 
setting  himself  to  work, — for  what  purposes  will  appear,  no  doubt, 
ulteriorly, — he  soon  had  got  a  pretty  accurate  knowledge  of  Lady 
Clavering's  affairs  and  fortune,  and  of  the  prospects  of  her  daughter 
and  son.  The  daughter  was  to  have  but  a  slender  provision ;  the 
bulk  of  the  property  was,  as  before  has  been  said,  to  go  to  the  son, — 
his  father  did  not  care  for  him  or  anybody  else, — his  mother  was 
dotingly  fond  of  him  as  the  child  of  her  latter  days,— his  sister  dis- 
liked him.  Such  may  be  stated,  in  round  numbers,  to  be  the  result  of 
the  information  which  Major  Pendennis  got.  "  Ah  !  my  dear  madam,'' 
he  would  say,  patting  the  head  of  the  boy,  "  this  boy  may  wear  a 
baronet's  coronet  on  his  head  on  some  future  coronation,  if  matters 
are  but  managed  rightly,  and  if  Sir  Francis  Clavering  would  but  play 
his  cards  well." 

At  this  the  widow  Amory  heaved  a  deep  sigh.  "He  plays  only 
too  much  of  his  cards.  Major,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said.  The  Major  owned 
that  he  knew  as  much ;  did  not  disguise  that  he  had  heard  of  Sir 
Francis  Clavering's  unfortunate  propensity  to  play  ;  pitied  Lady 
Clavering  sincerely;  but  spoke  with  such  genuine  sentiment  and 
sense,  that  her  ladyship,  glad  to  find  a  person  of  experience  to  whom 
she  could   confide  her  grief  and  her  condition,  talked  about  them 


PENDENNIS.  429 

pretty  unreservedly  to  Major  Pendennis,  and  was  eager  to  have  his 
advice  and  consolation.  Major  Pendennis  became  the  Begum's  con- 
fidant and  house-friend,  and  as  a  mother,  a  wife,  and  a  capitalist, 
she  consulted  him. 

He  gave  her  to  understand  (showing  at  the  same  time  a  great 
deal  of  respectful  sympathy)  that  he  was  acquainted  with  some  of  the 
circumstances  of  her  first  unfortunate  marriage,  and  with  even  the 
person  of  her  late  husband,  whom  he  remembered  in  Calcutta — when 
'she  was  living  in  seclusion  with  her  father.  The  poor  lady,  with  tears 
of  shame  more  than  of  grief  in  her  eyes,  told  her  version  of  her  story. 
Going  back  a  child  to  India  after  two  years  at  a  European  school,  she 
had  met  Amor>-,  and  foolishly  married  him.  "  Oh,  you  don't  know 
how  miserable  that  man  made  me,"  she  said,  "  or  what  a  life  I  passed 
betwixt  him  and  my  father.  Before  I  saw  him  I  had  never  seen  a 
man  except  my  father's  clerks  and  native  servants.     You  know  we 

didn't  go  into  society  in  India  on  account  of "     ("  I  know,"  said 

Major  Pendennis,  with  a  bow.)     "  I  was  a  wild,  romantic  child,  my 
head  was  full  of  novels  which  I'd  read  at  school — I  listened  to  his  wild 
stories  and  adventures,  for  he  was  a  daring  fellow,  and  I  thought  he 
talked  beautifully  of  those  calm  nights  on  the  passage  out,  when  he 
used  to  ...  .  Well,  I  married  him,  and   I  was  wretched  from  that 
day — wretched  with  my  father,  whose  character  you  know.   Major 
Pendennis,  and  I  won't  speak  of:  but  he  wasn't  a  good  man,  sir, — 
neither  to  my  poor  mother,  nor  to  me,  except  that  he  left  me  his 
money, — nor  to  no  one  else  that  I  ever  heard  of:  and  he  didn't  do 
many  kind  actions  in  his  lifetime,  I'm  afraid.     And  as  for  Amory,  he 
was  almost  worse ;  he  was  a  spendthrift  when  my  father  was  close  : 
he  drank  dreadfully,  and  was  furious  when  in  that  way.     He  wasn't  in 
any  way  a  good  or  faithful  husband  to  me.  Major  Pendennis ;  and  if 
he'd  died  in  the  gaol  before  his  trial,  instead  of  afterwards,  he  would 
have  saved  me  a  deal  of  shame  and  of  unhappiness  since,  sir."     Lady 
Claverin<^  added :  "  For  perhaps  I  should  not  have  married  at  all  if  I 
had  not  been  so  anxious  to  change  his  horrid  name,  and  I  have  not 
been  happy  in  my  second  husband,  as  I  suppose  you  know,  sir.     Ah, 
Major  Pendennis,  I've  got  money,  to  be  sure,  and  I'm  a  lady,  and 
people  fancy  I'm  very  happy,  but  I  ain't.     We  all  have  our  cares, 
and  griefs,  and  troubles :  and  many's  the  day  that  I  sit  down  to  one 
of  my  grand  dinners  with  an  aching  heart,  and  many  a  night  do  I  lay 
awake  on  my  fine  bed,  a  great  deal  more  unhappy  than  the  maid  that 
makes  it.     For  I'm  not  a  happy  woman,  Major,  for  all  the  world  says  ; 
and  envies  the  Begum  her  diamonds,  and  carriages,  and  the  great 
company  that  comes  to  my  house.     I'm  not  happy  in  my  husband  ; 
I'm  not  happy  in  my  daughter.     She  ain't  a  good  girl  like  that  dear 
Laura  Bell  at  Fairoaks.     She's  cost  me  many  a  tear,  though  you  don't 


430  PEjYDENNIS. 

see  'em ;  and  she  sneers  at  her  mother  because  I  haven't  had  learning 
and  that.  How  should  I  ?  I  was  brought  up  amongst  natives  till  I 
was  twelve,  and  went  back  to  India  when  I  was  fourteen.  Ah,  Major, 
I  should  have  been  a  good  woman  if  I  had  had  a  good  husband. 
And  now  I  must  go  upstairs  and  wipe  my  eyes,  for  they're  red  with 
cryin'.  And  Lady  Rockminster's  a-comin',  and  were  goin'  to  'ave  a 
drive  in  the  Park."  And  when  Lady  Rockminster  made  her  appear- 
ance, there  was  not  a  trace  of  tears  or  vexation  on  Lady  Clavering's 
face,  but  she  was  full  of  spirits,  and  bounced  out  with  her  blunders 
and  talk,  and  murdered  the  king's  English  with  the  utmost  liveliness 
and  good  humour. 

"  Begad,  she  is  not  such  a  bad  woman  ? "  the  Major  thought 
within  himself.  ''  She  is  not  refined,  certainly,  and  calls  '  Apollo  ' 
'ApoUer ;'  but  she  has  some  heart,  and  I  like  that  sort  of  thing,  and 
a  devilish  deal  of  money,  too.  Three  stars  in  India  Stock  to  her 
name,  begad  !  which  that  young  cub  is  to  have — is  he  ? "  And  he 
thought  how  he  should  like  to  see  a  little  of  the  money  transferred 
to  Miss  Blanche,  and,  better  still,  one  of  those  stars  shining  in  the 
name  of  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis. 

Still  bent  upon  pursuing  his  schemes,  whatsoever  they  might  be, 
the  old  negotiator  took  the  privilege  of  his  intimacy  and  age,  to  talk 
in  a  kindly  and  fatherly  manner  to  Miss  Blanche,  when  he  found 
occasion  to  see  her  alone.  He  came  in  so  frequently  at  luncheon- 
time,  and  became  so  familiar  with  the  ladies,  that  they  did  not  even 
hesitate  to  quarrel  before  him  ;  and  Lady  Clavering,  whose  tongue 
was  loud,  and  temper  brusque,  had  many  a  battle  with  the  Sylphide 
in  the  family  friend's  presence.  Blanche's  wit  seldom  failed  to  have 
the  mastery  in  these  encounters,  and  the  keen  barbs  of  her  arrows 
drove  her  adversar>'  discomfitted  away.  "  I  am  an  old  fellow,"  the 
Major  said  :  "  I  have  nothing  to  do  in  life.  I  have  my  eyes  open, 
I  keep  good  counsel.  I  am  the  friend  of  both  of  you  ;  and  if  you 
choose  to  quarrel  before  me,  why  I  shan't  tell  any  one.  But  you 
are  two  good  people,  and  I  intend  to  make  it  up  between  you.  I 
have  between  lots  of  people— husbands  and  wives,  fathers  and  sons, 
daughters  and  mammas,  before  this.  I  like  it  ;  I've  nothing-  else 
to  do." 

One  day,  then,  the  old  diplomatist  entered  Lady  Clavering^'s 
drawing-room,  just  as  the  latter  quitted  it,  evidently  in  a  high  state 
of  indignation,  and  ran  past  him  up  the  stairs  to  her  own  apartments. 
"  She  couldn't  speak  to  him  now,"  she  said  ;  "  she  was  a  great  deal 
too  angry  with  that— that— that  little  wicked  "—anger  choked  the 
rest  of  the  words,  or  prevented  their  utterance  until  Lady  Clavering 
had  passed  out  of  hearing. 

"My    dear    good   Miss   Amory,"  the    Major   said,   entering  the 


PENDENNIS.  -431 

drawing-room,  "  I  see  what  is  happening.  You  and  mamma  have 
been  disagreeing.  Mothers  and  daughters  disagree  in  the  best  fami- 
lies. It  was  but  last  week  that  I  healed  up  a  quarrel  between  Lady 
Clapperton  and  her  daughter  Lady  Claudia.  Lady  Lear  and  her 
eldest  daughter  have  not  spoken  for  fourteen  years.  Kinder  and 
more  worthy  people  than  these  I  never  knew  in  the  whole  course  of 
my  life  ;  for  everybody  but  each  other  admirable.  But  they  can't  live 
together  :  they  oughtn't  to  live  together  :  and  1  v.^sh,  my  dear 
creature,  with  all  my  soul,  that  I  could  see  you  with  an  establishment 
of  your  own — for  there  is  no  woman  in  London  who  could  conduct 
one  better — with  your  own  establishment,  making  your  own  home 
happy." 

"  I  am  not  very  happy  in  this  one,"  said  the  Sylphide  ;  "  and  the 
stupidity  of  mamma  is  enough  to  provoke  a  saint." 

"  Precisely  so  ;  you  are  not  suited  to  one  another.  Your  mother 
committed  one  fault  in  early  life — or  was  it  Nature,  my  dear,  in  your 
case  1 — she  ought  not  to  have  educated  you.  You  ought  not  to  have 
been  bred  up  to  become  the  refined  and  intellectual  being  you  are, 
surrounded,  as  I  own  you  are,  by  those  who  have  not  your  genius  or 
your  refinement.  Your  place  would  be  to  lead  in  the  most  brilliant 
circles,  not  to  follow,  and  take  a  second  place  in  any  society.  I  have 
watched  you,  Miss  Amory  :  you  are  ambitious  ;  and  your  proper 
sphere  is  command.  You  ought  to  shine  ;  and  you  never  can  in  this 
house,  I  know  it.  I  hope  I  shall  see  you  in  another  and  a  happier 
one,  some  day,  and  the  mistress  of  it." 

The  Sylphide  shrugged  her  lily  shoulders  with  a  look  of  scorn. 
"Where  is  the  Prince,  and  where  is  the  palace,  Major  Pendennis.?" 
she  said.  "  I  am  ready.  But  there  is  no  romance  in  the  world  now, 
no  real  affection." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  the  Major,  with  the  most  sentimental  and 
simple  air  which  he  could  muster. 

"  Not  that  I  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Blanche,  casting  her 
eyes  down,  "  except  what  I  have  read  in  novels." 

"  Of  course  not,"  Major  Pendennis  cried  ;  "  how  should  you,  my 
dear  young  lady  ?  and  novels  ain't  true,  as  you  remark  admirably,  and 
there  is  no  romance  left  in  the  world.  Begad,  I  wish  1  was  a  young 
fellow  like  my  nephew." 

"And  what,"  continued  Miss  Amory,  musing,  "what  arc  tlic  men 
whom  we  see  about  at  the  balls  every  night — dancing  guardsmen, 
penniless  treasury  clerks — boobies  !  If  I  had  my  brother's  fortune, 
I  might  have  such  an  establishment  as  you  promise  mc— but  with  my 
name,  and  with  my  little  means,  what  am  I  to  look  to  ?  A  rn.;,-fv 
parson,  or  a  barrister  in  a  street  near  Russell  Square,  or  a  captain  in 
a  dragoon  regiment,  who  will  take  lodgings  for  me,  and  come  home 


432 


PEXDENA'IS. 


from  the  mess  tipsy  and  smelling  of  smoke  like  Sir  Francis  Clavering. 
Tiiat  is  how  we  girls  are  destined  to  end  life.  Oh,  Major  Pendennis, 
1  am  sick  of  London,  and  of  balls,  and  of  young  dandies  with  their 
chin-tips,  and  of  the  insolent  great  ladies  who  know  us  one  day  and 
cut  us  the  next — and  of  the  world  altogether.  I  should  like  to  leave 
it  and  go  into  a  convent,  that  I  should.  I  shall  never  find  anybody 
to  understand  me.  And  I  live  here  as  much  alone  in  my  family  and 
in  the  world,  as  if  I  were  in  a  cell  locked  up  for  ever.  I  wish  there 
were  Sisters  of  Charity  here,  and  that  I  could  be  one  and  catch  the 
plague,  and  die  of  it — I  wish  to  quit  the  world.  I  am  not  very  old : 
but  I  am  tired,  I  have  suffered  so  much — I've  been  so  disillusionated 
— I'm  weary,  I'm  weary— oh  !  that  the  Angel  of  Death  would  come  and 
beckon  me  away ! " 

This  speech  may  be  interpreted  as  follows.  A  few  nights  since  a 
great  lady.  Lady  Flamingo,  had  cut  Miss  Amory  and  Lady  Clavering. 
She  was  quite  mad  because  she  could  not  get  an  invitation  to  Lady 
Drum's  ball :  it  was  the  end  of  the  season,  and  nobody  had  proposed  to 
her:  she  had  made  no  sensation  at  all,  she  who  was  so  much  cleverer 
than  any  girl  of  the  year,  and  of  the  young  ladies  forming  her  special 
circle.  Dora  who  had  but  five  thousand  pounds,  Flora  who  had 
nothing,  and  Leonora  who  had  red  hair,  were  going  to  be  married,  and 
nobody  had  come  for  Blanche  Amory  ! 

"You  judge  wisely  about  the  world,  and  about  your  position,  my 
dear  Miss  Blanche,"  the  Major  said.  "  The  Prince  don't  marry  now- 
a-days,  as  you  say:  unless  the  Princess  has  a  doosid  deal  of  money  in 
the  funds,  or  is  a  lady  of  his  own  rank. — The  young  folks  of  the  great 
families  marry  into  the  great  families :  if  they  haven't  fortune  they  have 
each  other's  shoulders,  to  push  on  in  the  world,  which  is  pretty  nearly 
as  good. — A  girl  with  your  fortune  can  scarcely  hope  for  a  gpreat  match  : 
but  a  girl  with  your  genius  and  your  admirable  tact  and  fine  manners, 
with  a  clever  husband  by  her  side,  may  make  any  place  for  herself  in 
the  world. — We  are  grown  doosid  repubhcan.  Talent  ranks  with  birth 
and  wealth  now,  begad :  and  a  clever  man  with  a  clever  wife  may  take 
any  place  they  please.'' 

Miss  Amory  did  not  of  course  in  the  least  understand  what  Major 
Pendennis  meant. — Perhaps  she  thought  over  circumstances  in  her 
mind  and  asked  herself,  could  he  be  a  negotiator  for  a  former  suitor  of 
hers,  and  could  he  mean  Pen  ?  No,  it  was  impossible — He  had  been 
civil,  but  nothing  more. — So  she  said,  laughing,  '•  Who  is  the  clever 
man,  and  when  will  you  bring  him  to  me.  Major  Pendennis  t  I  am 
dying  to  see  him." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  threw  open  the  door,  and  announced 
Mr.  Henry  Foker,  at  which  name,  and  the  appearance  of  our  friend, 
both  the  lady  and  the  gentleman  burst  out  laughino". 


PENDENNIS.  433 

"  That  is  not  the  man,"  Major  Pendennis  said.  "  He  is  engaged 
to  his  cousin,  Lord  Gravescnd's  daughter. — Good-by,  my  dear  Miss 
Amory." 

Was  Pen  growing  worldly,  and  should  a  man  not  get  the  expe- 
rience of  the  world  and  lay  it  to  his  account?  "  He  felt,  for  his  part," 
as  he  said,  "  that  he  was  growing  very  old  very  soon.  How  this  town 
forms  and  changes  us,"  he  said  once  to  Warrington.  Each  had  come 
in  from  his  night's  amusement ;  and  Pen  was  smoking  his  pi-pe,  and 
recounting,  as  his  habit  was,  to  his  friend  the  observations  and  adven- 
tures of  the  evening  just  past.  "  How  I  am  changed,"  he  said,  "  from 
the  simpleton  boy  at  Fairoaks,  who  was  fit  to  break  his  heart  about  his 
first  love  !  Lady  Mirabel  had  a  reception  to-night,  and  was  as  grave 
and  collected  as  if  she  had  been  born  a  duchess,  and  had  never  seen  a 
trap-door  in  her  life.  She  gave  me  the  honour  of  a  conversation,  and 
patronised  me  about  '  Walter  Lorraine,'  quite  kindly." 

"  What  condescension,"  broke  in  Warrington. 

"Wasn't  it?"  Pen  said,  simply — at  which  the  other  burst  out 
laughing  according  to  his  wont.  "  Is  it  possible,"  he  said,  "  that 
anybody  should  think  of  patronising  the  eminent  author  of  '  Walter 
Lorraine  ? ' " 

"  You  laugh  at  both  of  us,"  Pen  said,  blushing  a  little — "  I  was 
coming  to  that  myself.  She  told  me  that  she  had  not  read  the  book 
(as  indeed  I  believe  she  never  read  a  book  in  her  life),  but  that  Lady 
Rockminster  had,  and  that  the  Duchess  of  Connaught  pronounced  it 
to  be  very  clever.  In  that  case,  I  said  I  should  die  happy,  for  that  to 
please  those  two  ladies  was  in  fact  the  great  aim  of  my  existence,  and 
having  their  approbation,  of  course  I  need  look  for  no  other.  Lady 
Mirabel  looked  at  me  solemnly  out  of  her  fine  eyes,  and  said,  '  Oh, 
indeed,'  as  if  she  understood  me ;  and  then  she  asked  me  whether  I 
went  to  the  Duchess's  Thursdays,  and  when  I  said  No,  hoped  she 
should  see  me  there,  and  that  I  must  try  and  get  there,  everybody  went 
there — everybody  who  was  in  society:  and  then  we  talked  of  the  new 
ambassador  from  Timbuctoo,  and  how  he  was  better  than  the  old  one; 
and  how  Lady  Mary  Billington  was  going  to  marry  a  clergyman  quite 
below  her  in  rank ;  and  how  Lord  and  Lady  Ringdove  had  fallen  out 
three  months  after  their  marriage  about  Tom  Pouler  of  the  Blues,  Lady 
Ringdove's  cousin — and  so  forth.  From  the  gravity  of  that  woman  you 
would  have  fancied  she  had  been  born  in  a  palace,  and  lived  all  the 
seasons  of  her  life  in  Belgrave  Square." 

"  And  you,  I  suppose  you  took  your  part  in  the  conversation 
pretty  well,  as  the  descendant  of  the  Earl  your  father,  and  the  heir 
oi  Fairoaks  Castle  ? "  Warrington  said.  "  Yes,  I  remember  reading 
of  the  festivities  which  occurred  when  you  came  of  age.    The  Countess 

28 


434  PENDENNIS. 

gave  ;i  brilliant  tea  soiree  to  the  neighbouring  nobility;  and  the 
tenantry  were  regaled  in  the  kitchen  with  a  leg  of  mutton  and  a  quart 
of  ale.  The  remains  of  the  banquet  were  distributed  amongst  the 
poor  of  the  village,  and  the  entrance  to  the  park  was  illuminated  until 
old  Jolin  put  the  candle  out  on  retiring  to  rest  at  his  usual  hour." 

"  My  mother  is  not  a  countess,"  said  Pen,  "  though  she  has  very 
good  blood  in  her  veins  too — but  commoner  as  she  is,  I  have  never 
met  a  peeress  who  was  more  than  her  peer,  Mr.  George ;  and  if  you 
will  come  to  Fairoaks  Castle  you  shall  judge  for  yourself  of  her  and 
of  my  cousin  too.  They  are  not  so  witty  as  the  London  women,  but 
they  certainly  are  as  well  bred.  The  thoughts  of  women  in  the  country 
are  turned  to  other  objects  than  those  which  occupy  your  London 
ladies.  In  the  country  a  woman  has  her  household  and  her  poor,  her 
long  calm  days  and  long  calm  evenings." 

"  Devilish  long,"  Warrington  said,  "  and  a  great  deal  too  calm ; 
I've  tried  'em." 

"  The  monotony  of  that  existence  must  be  to  a  certain  degree 
melancholy — like  the  tune  of  a  long  ballad  ;  and  its  harmony  grave 
and  gentle,  sad  and  tender:  it  would  be  unendurable  else.  The 
loneliness  of  women  in  the  country  makes  them  of  necessity  soft  and 
sentimental.  Leading  a  life  of  calm  duty,  constant  routine,  mystic 
reverie, — a  sort  of  nuns  at  large— too  much  gaiety  or  laughter  would 
jar  upon  their  almost  sacred  quiet,  and  would  be  as  out  of  place  there 
as  in  a  church." 

"  Where  you  go  to  sleep  over  the  sermon,"  Warrington  said. 

"  You  are  a  professed  misogynist,  and  hate  the  sex  because,  I 
suspect,  you  know  very  little  about  them,"  Mr.  Pen  continued,  with 
an  air  of  considerable  self-complacency.  "  If  you  dislike  the  women 
in  the  country  for  being  too  slow,  surely  the  London  women  ought 
to  be  fast  enough  for  you.  The  pace  of  London  life  is  enormous : 
how  do  people  last  at  it,  I  wonder,— male  and  female?  Take  a 
woman  of  the  world :  follow  her  course  through  the  season ;  one  asks 
how  she  can  survive  it  ?  or  if  she  tumbles  into  a  sleep  at  the  end  of 
August,  and  lies  torpid  until  the  spring  ?  She  goes  into  the  world 
every  night,  and  sits  watching  her  marriageable  daughters  dancing 
till  long  after  dawn.  She  has  a  nursery  of  little  ones,  very  likely,  at 
home,  to  whom  she  administers  example  and  affection;  having  an 
eye  likewise  to  bread-and-milk,  catechism,  music  and  French,  and 
roast  leg  of  mutton  at  one  o'clock;  she  has  to  call  upon  ladies  of  her 
own  station,  either  domestically  or  in  her  public  character,  in  which 
she  sits  upon  Charity  Committees,  or  Ball  Committees,  or  Emigration 
Committees,  or  Queen's  College  Committees,  and  discharges  I  don't 
know  what  more  duties  of  British  stateswomanship.  She  verv  likely 
keeps  a  poor  visiting-list ;  has  conversations  with  the  clerg\-man  about 


PENDENNIS.  435 

soup  or  flannel,  or  proper  religious  teaching  for  the  parish;  and  (if 
she  lives  in  certain  districts)  probably  attends  early  church.  She  has 
the  newspapers  to  read,  and,  at  least,  must  know  what  her  husband's 
party  is  about,  so  as  to  be  able  to  talk  to  her  neighbour  at  dinner ; 
and  it  is  a  fact  that  she  reads  every  new  book  that  comes  out ;  for  she 
can  talk,  and  very  smartly  and  well,  about  them  all,  and  you  see  them 
all  upon  her  drawing-room  table.  She  has  the  cares  of  her  household 
besides ; — to  make  both  ends  meet ;  to  make  the  girls'  milliner's  bills 
appear  not  too  dreadful  to  the  father  and  paymaster  of  the  family ;  to 
snip  off,  in  secret,  a  little  extra  article  of  expenditure  here  and  there, 
and  convey  it,  in  the  shape  of  a  bank-note,  to  the  boys  at  college  or  at 
sea ;  to  check  the  encroachments  of  tradesmen  and  housekeepers' 
financial  fallacies;  to  keep  upper  and  lower  servants  from  jangling 
with  one  another,  and  the  household  in  order.  Add  to  this,  that  she 
has  a  secret  taste  for  some  art  or  science,  models  in  clay,  makes 
experiments  in  chemistry,  or  plays  in  private  on  the  violoncello, — and 
I  say,  without  exaggeration,  many  London  ladies  are  doing  this, — 
and  you  have  a  character  before  you  such  as  our  ancestors  never 
heard  of,  and  such  as  belongs  entirely  to  our  era  and  period  of  civi- 
lization. Ye  gods  !  how  rapidly  we  live  and  grow  !  In  nine  months, 
Mr.  Paxton  grows  you  a  pine-apple  as  large  as  a  portmanteau,  whereas 
a  little  one,  no  bigger  than  a  Dutch  cheese,  took  three  years  to  attain 
his  majority  in  old  times ;  and  as  the  race  of  pine-apples  so  is  the  race 
of  man.     Hoiaper — what's  the  Greek  for  a  pine-apple,  Warrington  ?" 

"  Stop,  for  mercy's  sake,  stop  with  the  English  and  before  you 
come  to  the  Greek,"  Warrington  cried  out,  laughing.  "  I  never  heard 
you  make  such  a  long  speech,  or  was  aware  that  you  had  penetrated  so 
deeply  into  the  female  mysteries.  Who  taught  you  all  this,  and  into 
whose  boudoirs  and  nurseries  have  you  been  peeping,  whilst  I  was 
smoking  my  pipe,  and  reading  my  book,  lying  on  my  straw  bed  ?" 

"  You  are  on  the  bank,  old  boy,  content  to  watch  the  waves 
tossing  in  the  winds,  and  the  struggles  of  others  at  sea,"  Pen  said. 
"  I  am  in  the  stream  now,  and,  by  Jove,  I  like  it.  How  rapidly  we 
go  down  it,  hey  ? — strong  and  feeble,  old  and  young — the  metal 
pitchers  and  the  earthen  pitchers — the  pretty  little  china  boat  swims 
gaily  till  the  big  bruised  brazen  one  bumps  him  and  sends  him  down 
— eh,  vogue  la  galcre ! — you  see  a  man  sink  in  the  race,  and  say 
good-by  to  him — look,  he  has  only  dived  under  the  other  fellow's  legs, 
and  comes  up  shaking  his  poll,  and  striking  out  ever  so  far  ahead. 
Eh,  vogue  la  galcre,  I  say.  It's  good  sport,  Warrington — not  winning 
merely,  but  playing." 

"  Well,  go  in  and  win,  young  'un.  I'll  sit  and  mark  the  game," 
Warrington  said,  surveying  the  ardent  young  fellow  with  an  almost 
fatherly  pleasure.     "  A  generous  fellow  plays  for  the  play,  a  sordid  one 


436  PENDENNIS. 

for  the  stake ;  an  old  fogey  sits  by  and  smokes  the  pipe  of  tranquillity, 
while  Jack  and  Tom  are  pummelling  each  other  in  the  ring." 

"  Why  don't  you  come  in,  George,  and  have  a  turn  with  the  gloves  ? 
You  are  big  enough  and  strong  enough,"  Pen  said.  "  Dear  old  boy, 
you  are  worth  ten  of  me." 

"  You  are  not  quite  as  tall  as  Goliath,  certainly,"  the  other  answered, 
with  a  laugh  that  was  rough  and  yet  tender.  "  And  as  for  me,  I  am 
disabled.  I  had  a  fatal  hit  in  early  life.  I  will  tell  you  about  it  some 
day.  You  may,  too,  meet  with  your  master.  Don't  be  too  eager,  or 
too  confident,  or  too  worldly,  my  boy." 

Was  Pendennis  becoming  worldly,  or  only  seeing  the  world,  or 
both  ?  and  is  a  man  very  wrong  for  being  after  all  only  a  man  ? 
Which  is  the  most  reasonable,  and  does  his  duty  best :  he  who  stands 
aloof  from  the  struggle  of  life,  calmly  contemplating  it,  or  he  who 
descends  to  the  ground,  and  takes  his  part  in  the  contest  !  "  That 
philosopher,"  Pen  said,  "  had  held  a  great  place  amongst  the  leaders 
of  the  world,  and  enjoyed  to  the  full  what  it  had  to  give  of  rank  and 
riches,  renown  and  pleasure,  who  came,  weary-hearted,  out  of  it,  and 
said  that  all  was  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  Many  a  teacher  of 
those  whom  we  reverence,  and  who  steps  cut  of  his  carriage  up  to 
his  carved  cathedral  place,  shakes  his  lawn  ruffles  over  the  velvet 
cushion,  and  cries  out  that  the  whole  struggle  is  an  accursed  one,  and 
the  works  of  the  world  are  evil.  Many  a  conscience-stricken  mystic 
flies  from  it  altogether,  and  shuts  himself  out  from  it  v.ithin  convent 
walls  (real  or  spiritual),  whence  he  can  only  look  up  to  the  sky,  and 
contemplate  the  heaven  out  of  which  there  is  no  rest,  and  no  good. 

"  But  the  earth,  where  our  feet  are,  is  the  work  of  the  same  Power 
as  the  immeasurable  blue  yonder,  in  which  the  future  lies  into  which 
we  would  peer.  Who  ordered  toil  as  the  condition  of  life,  ordered 
weariness,  ordered  sickness,  ordered  poverty,  failure,  success — to  this 
man  a  foremost  place,  to  the  other  a  nameless  struggle  with  the  crowd 
— to  that  a  shameful  fall,  or  paralysed  limb,  or  sudden  accident — to 
each  some  work  upon  the  ground  he  stands  on,  until  he  is  laid 
beneath  it."  While  they  were  talking,  the  dawn  came  shining  through 
the  windows  of  the  room,  and  Pen  threw  them  open  to  receive  the 
fresh  morning  air.  "  Look,  George,"  said  he ;  "  look  and  see  the  sun 
rise :  he  sees  the  labourer  on  his  way  a-fleld ;  the  work-girl  plying 
her  poor  needle ;  the  lawyer  at  his  desk,  perhaps ;  the  beauty  smiling 
asleep  upon  her  pillow  of  down;  or  the  jaded  reveller  reeling  to  bed; 
or  the  fevered  patient  tossing  on  it;  or  the  doctor  watching  by  it, 
over  the  throes  of  the  mother  for  the  child  that  is  to  be  born  into  the 
world ;— to  be  born  and  to  take  his  part  in  the  suffering  and  struggling, 
the  tears  and  laughter,  the  crime,  remorse,  love,  folly,  sorrow,  rest." 


PENDENNIS.  437 


CHAPTER  XLV. 
MISS  amory's  partners. 

THE  noble  Henry  Foker,  of  whom  we  have  lost  sight  for  a  few 
pages,  has  been  in  the  meanwhile  occupied,  as  we  might  sup- 
pose a  man  of  his  constancy  would  be,  in  the  pursuit  and  indulgence 
of  his  all-absorbing  passion  of  love. 

He  longed  after  her,  and  cursed  the  fate  which  separated  him  from 
her.  When  Lord  Gravesend's  family  retired  to  the  country  (his  lord- 
ship leaving  his  proxy  with  the  venerable  Lord  Bagwig),  Harry  still 
remained  lingering  on  in  London,  certainly  not  much  to  the  sorrow  of 
Lady  Ann,  to  whom  he  was  affianced,  and  who  did  not  in  the  least 
miss  him.  Wherever  Miss  Clavering  went,  this  infatuated  young 
fellow  continued  to  follow  her;  and  being  aware  that  his  engagement 
to  his  cousin  was  known  in  the  world,  he  was  forced  to  make  a 
mystery  of  his  passion,  and  confine  it  to  his  own  breast,  so  that  it  was 
so  pent  in  there  and  pressed  down,  that  it  is  a  wonder  he  did  not 
explodfe  some  day  with  the  stormy  secret,  and  perish  collapsed  after 
the  outburst. 

There  had  been  a  grand  entertainment  at  Gaunt  House  on  one 
beautiful  evening  in  June,  and  the  next  day's  journals  contained 
almost  two  columns  of  the  names  of  the  most  closely  printed  nobility 
and  gentry  who  had  been  honoured  with  invitations  to  the  ball. 
Among  the  guests  were  Sir  Francis  and  Lady  Clavering  and  Miss 
Amory,  for  whom  the  indefatigable  Major  Pendennis  had  procured 
an  invitation,  and  our  two  young  friends  Arthur  and  Harry.  Each 
exerted  himself,  and  danced  a  great  deal  with  Miss  Blanche.  As  for 
the  worthy  Major,  he  assumed  the  charge  of  Lady  Clavering,  and  took 
care  to  introduce  her  to  that  department  of  the  mansion  where  her 
ladyship  specially  distinguished  herself,  namely,  the  refreshment-room, 
where,  amongst  pictures  of  Titian  and  Giorgione,  and  regal  portraits 
of  Vandyke  and  Reynolds,  and  enormous  salvers  of  gold  and  silver, 
and  pyramids  of  large  flowers,  and  constellations  of  wax  candles— in  a 
manner  perfectly  regardless  of  expense,  in  a  word — a  supper  was  going 
on  all  night.  Of  how  many  creams,  jellies,  salads,  peaches,  white 
soups,  grapes,  pates,  galantines,  cups  of  tea,  champagne,  and  so  forth, 
Lady  Clavering  partook,  it  does  not  become  us  to  say.     How  much 


438  PENDENNIS. 

the  Major  suffered  as  he  followed  the  honest  woman  about,  calling  to 
the  solemn  male  attendants  and  lovely  servant-maids,  and  administer- 
ing to  Lady  Clavering's  various  wants  with  admirable  patience,  nobody 
knows: — he  never  confessed.  He  never  allowed  his  agony  to  appear 
on  his  countenance  in  the  least ;  but  with  a  constant  kindness  brought 
plate  after  plate  to  the  Begum. 

Mr.  Wagg  counted  up  all  the  dishes  of  which  Lady  Clavering 
partook  as  long  as  he  could  count  (but  as  he  partook  very  freely 
himself  of  champagne  during  the  evening,  his  powers  of  calculation 
were  not  to  be  trusted  at  the  close  of  the  entertainment),  and  he 
recommended  Mr.  Honeyman,  Lady  Steyne's  medical  man,  to  look 
carefully  after  the  Begum,  and  to  call  and  get  news  of  her  ladyship  the 
next  day. 

Sir  Francis  Clavering  made  his  appearance,  and  skulked  for  a 
while  about  the  magnificent  rooms  :  but  the  company  and  the 
splendour  which  he  met  there  were  not  to  the  Baronet's  taste,  and 
after  tossing  off  a  tumbler  of  wine  or  two  at  the  buffet,  he  quitted 
Gaunt  House  for  the  neighbourhood  of  Jermyn  Street,  where  his 
friends  Loder,  Punter,  little  Moss  Abrams,  and  Captain  Skewball 
W'Cre  assembled  at  the  familiar  green  table.  In  the  rattle  of  the  box, 
and  of  their  agreeable  conversation,  Sir  Francis's  spirits  rose  to  their 
accustomed  point  of  feeble  hilarity. 

Mr.  Pynsent,  who  had  asked  INIiss  Amor>'  to  dance,  came  up  on 
one  occasion  to  claim  her  hand,  but  scowls  of  recognition  having 
already  passed  between  him  and  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  in  the 
dancing-room,  Arthur  suddenly  rose  up  and  claimed  Miss  Amory  as 
his  partner  for  the  present  dance,  on  which  Mr.  Pynsent,  biting  his 
lips  and  scowling  yet  more  savagely,  withdrew  with  a  profound  bow, 
saying  that  he  gave  up  his  claim.  There  are  some  men  who  are 
always  falling  in  one's  way  in  life.  Pynsent  and  Pen  had  this  view  of 
each  other ;  and  regarded  each  other  accordingly. 

"  What  a  confounded  conceited  provincial  fool  that  is ! "'  thought 
the  one.  "  Because  he  has  written  a  twopenny  novel,  his  absurd  head 
is  turned,  and  a  kicking  w-ould  take  his  conceit  out  of  him." 

"  What  an  impertinent  idiot  that  man  is  !  "  remarked  the  other  to 
his  partner.  "  His  soul  is  in  Downing  Street ;  his  neckcloth  is  fools- 
cap ;  his  hair  is  sand ;  his  legs  are  rulers ;  his  vitals  are  tape  and 
sealing-wax ;  he  was  a  prig  in  his  cradle ;  and  never  laughed  since  he 
was  born,  except  three  times  at  the  same  joke  of  his  chief.  I  have  the 
same  liking  for  that  man.  Miss  Amory,  that  I  have  for  cold  boiled 
veal."  Upon  which  Blanche  of  course  remarked,  that  Mr.  Pendennis 
was  wicked,  mechatit,  perfectly  abominable,  and  wondered  what  he 
would  say  when  her  back  was  turned. 

"  Say  ! — Say  that  you  have  the  most  beautiful  figure  and  the  slim- 


PENDENNIS.  439 

mest  waist  in  the  world,  Blanche — Miss  Amory  I  mean,  I  beg  your 
pardon.     Another  turn ;  this  music  would  make  an  alderman  dance." 

"  And  you  have  left  off  tumbling  when  you  waltz  now  ?  "  Blanche 
asked,  archly  looking  up  at  her  partner's  face. 

"  One  falls  and  one  gets  up  again  in  life,  Blanche ;  you  know  I  used 
to  call  you  so  in  old  times,  and  it  is  the  prettiest  name  in  the  world : 
besides,  I  have  practised  since  then." 

"  And  with  a  great  number  of  partners,  I'm  afraid,"  Blanche  said, 
with  a  little  sham  sigh,  and  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  And  so  in  truth 
Mr.  Pen  had  practised  a  good  deal  in  this  life ;  and  had  undoubtedly 
arrived  at  being  able  to  dance  better. 

If  Pendennis  was  impertinent  in  his  talk,  Foker,  on  the  other 
hand,  so  bland  and  communicative  on  most  occasions,  was  entirely 
mum  and  melancholy  when  he  danced  with  Miss  Amoiy.  To  clasp 
her  slender  waist  was  a  rapture,  to  whirl  round  the  room  with  her  was 
a  delirium ;  but  to  speak  to  her,  what  could  he  say  that  was  worthy  of 
her .?  What  pearl  of  conversation  could  he  bring  that  was  fit  for  the 
acceptance  of  such  a  Queen  of  love  and  wit  as  Blanche?  It  was  she 
who  made  the  talk  when  she  was  in  the  company  of  this  love-stricken 
partner.  It  was  she  who  asked  him  how  that  dear  little  pony  was,  and 
looked  at  him  and  thanked  him  with  such  a  tender  kindness  and 
)  egret,  and  refused  the  dear  little  pony  with  such  a  delicate  sigh  when 
he  offered  it.  "  I  have  nobody  to  ride  with  in  London,"  she  said. 
"  Mamma  is  timid,  and  her  figure  is  not  pretty  on  horseback.  Sir 
Francis  never  goes  out  with  me.  He  loves  me  like — like  a  step- 
daughter. Oh,  how  delightful  it  must  be  to  have  a  father — a  father, 
Mr.  Fokei  ! " 

"  O,  uncommon,"  said  Mr.  Harry,  who  enjoyed  that  blessing  very 
calmly  ;  upon  which,  and  forgetting  the  sentimental  air  which  she  had 
just  before  assumed,  Blanche's  grey  eyes  gazed  at  Foker  with  such 
an  arch  twinkle,  that  both  of  them  burst  out  laughing,  and  Harry 
enraptured  and  at  his  ease  began  to  entertain  her  with  a  variety  of 
innocent  prattle — good  kind  simple  Foker  talk,  flavoured  with  many 
expressions  by  no  means  to  be  discovered  in  dictionaries,  and  relating 
to  the  personal  history  of  himself  or  horses,  or  other  things  dear  and 
important  to  him,  or  to  persons  in  the  ball-room  then  passing  before 
them,  and  about  whose  appearance  or  character  Mr.  Harry  spoke 
with  artless  freedom,  and  a  considerable  dash  of  humour. 

And  it  was  Blanche  who,  when  the  conversation  flagged,  and  the 
youth's  modesty  came  rushing  back  and  overpowering  him,  knew 
how  to  reanimate  her  companion  :  asked  him  questions  about  Log- 
wood, and  whether  it  was  a  pretty  place?  Whether  he  was  a 
hunting-man,  and  whether  he  liked  women  to  hunt  ?  (in  which  case 
she  was  prepared  to   say  that  she   adored   hunting) — but  Mr.  Foker 


440  PENDENNIS. 

expressing  his  opinion  against  sporting  females,  and  pointing  out 
Lady  Bullfinch,  who  happened  to  pass  by,  as  a  horse-godmother 
whom  he  had  seen  at  cover  with  a  cigar  in  her  face,  Blanche  too 
expressed  her  detestation  of  the  sports  of  the  field,  and  said  it 
would  make  her  shudder  to  think  of  a  dear  sweet  little  fox  being 
Ivilled,  on  which  Foker  laughed  and  waltzed  with  renewed  vigour 
and  grace. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  waltz, — the  last  waltz  they  had  on  that 
night, — Blanche  asked  him  about  Drummington,  and  whether  it  was 
a  fine  house.  His  cousins,  she  had  heard,  were  very  accomplished  : 
Lord  Erith  she  had  met,  and  which  of  his  cousins  was  his  favourite  ? 
Was  it  not  Lady  Ann  ?  Yes,  she  was  sure  it  was  she  :  sure  by  his 
looks  and  his  blushes.  She  was  tired  of  dancing  ;  it  was  getting  very 
late  ;  she  must  go  to  mamma  ;— and,  without  another  word,  she 
sprang  away  from  Harry  Foker^s  arm,  and  seized  upon  Pen's,  who 
was  swaggering  about  the  dancing-room,  and  again  said,  "  Mamma, 
mamma  ! — take  me  to  mamma,  dear  Mr.  Pendennis  ! "  transfixing 
Harry  with  a  Parthian  shot,  as  she  fled  from  him. 

Uy  Lord  Steyne,  with  garter  and  ribbon,  with  a  bald  head  and 
shining  eyes,  and  a  collar  of  red  whiskers  round  his  face,  always 
looked  grand  upon  an  occasion  of  state  ;  and  made  a  great  effect 
upon  Lady  Clavering,  when  he  introduced  himself  to  her  at  the 
request  of  the  obsequious  Major  Pendennis.  With  his  own  white 
and  royal  hand,  he  handed  to  her  ladyship  a  glass  of  wine,  said  he  had 
heard  of  her  charming  daughter,  and  begged  to  be  presented  to  her  ; 
and,  at  this  \Q.ry  juncture,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  came  up  with  the 
young  lady  on  his  arm. 

The  peer  made  a  profound  bow,  and  Blanche  the  deepest  curtsey 
that  ever  was  seen.  His  lordship  gave  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  his 
hand  to  shake  ;  said  he  had  read  his  book,  which  was  very  wicked 
and  clever  ;  asked  Miss  Blanche  if  she  had  read  it, — at  which  Pen 
blushed  and  winced.  WTiy,  Blanche  was  one  of  the  heroines  of  the 
novel.  Blanche,  in  black  ringlets  and  a  little  altered,  was  the  Neaera 
of  Walter  Lorraine. 

Blanche  had  read  it :  the  language  of  the  eyes  expressed  her 
admiration  and  rapture  at  the  performance.  This  little  play  being 
achieved,  the  Marquis  of  Steyne  made  other  two  profound  bows  to 
Lady  Clavering  and  her  daughter,  and  passed  on  to  some  other  of 
his  guests  at  the  splendid  entertainment. 

Mamma  and  daughter  were  loud  in  their  expressions  of  admira- 
tion of  the  noble  Marquis  so  soon  as  his  broad  back  was  turned  upon 
them.  "  He  said  they  make  a  very  nice  couple,"  whispered  Major 
Pendennis  to  Lady  Clavering.  Did  he  now,  really  ?  Mamma  thought 
they  would  ;  Mamma  was  so  flustered  with  the  honour  which  had 


PENDENNIS.  441 

just  been  shown  to  her,  and  with  other  intoxicating  events  of  the 
evening,  that  her  good  humour  knew  no  bounds.  She  laughed,  she 
winked,  and  nodded  knowingly  at  Pen  ;  she  tapped  him  on  the  arm 
with  her  fan  ;  she  tapped  Blanche  ;  she  tapped  the  Major  ; — her 
contentment  was  boundless,  and  her  method  of  showing  her  joy- 
equally  expansive. 

As  the  party  went  down  the  great  staircase  of  Gaunt  House,  the 
morning  had  risen  stark  and  clear  over  the  black  trees  of  the  square  ; 
the  skies  were  tinged  with  pink  ;  and  the  cheeks  of  some  of  the 
people  at  the  ball, — ah,  how  ghastly  they  looked  !  That  admirable 
and  devoted  Major  above  all, — who  had  been  for  hours  by  Lady 
Clavering's  side,  ministering  to  her  and  feeding  her  body  with  every- 
thing that  was  nice,  and  her  ear  with  everything  that  was  sweet  and 
flattering, — oh !  what  an  object  he  was !  The  rings  round  his  eyes 
were  of  the  colour  of  bistre  ;  those  orbs  themselves  were  like  the 
plovers'  eggs  whereof  Lady  Clavering  and  Blanche  had  each  tasted  ; 
the  wrinkles  in  his  old  face  were  furrowed  in  deep  gashes  ;  and  a 
silver  stubble,  like  an  elderly  morning  dew,  was  glittering  on  his  chin, 
and  alongside  the  dyed  whiskers,  now  limp  and  out  of  curl. 

There  he  stood,  with  admirable  patience,  enduring,  uncomplaining, 
a  silent  agony ;  knowing  that  people  could  see  the  state  of  his  face 
(for  could  he  not  himself  perceive  the  condition  of  others,  males  and 
females,  of  his  own  age  "i) — longing  to  go  to  rest  for  hours  past ;  aware 
that  suppers  disagreed  with  him,  and  yet  having  eaten  a  little  so  as  to 
keep  his  friend,  Lady  Clavering,  in  good  humour;  with  twinges  of 
rheumatism  in  the  back  and  knees;  with  weary  feet  burning  in  his 
varnished  boots, — so  tired,  oh,  so  tired  and  longing  for  bed !  If  a 
man,  struggling  with  hardship  and  bravely  overcoming  it,  is  an  object 
of  admiration  for  the  gods,  that  Power  in  whose  chapels  the  old  Major 
was  a  faithful  worshipper  must  have  looked  upwards  approvingly  upon 
the  constancy  of  Pendennis's  martyrdom.  There  are  sufferers  in  that 
cause  as  in  the  other:  the  negroes  in  the  service  of  Mumbo  Jumbo 
tattoo  and  drill  themselves  with  burning  skewers  with  great  fortitude ; 
and  we  read  that  the  priests  in  the  service  of  Baal  gashed  themselves 
and  bled  freely.  You  who  can  smash  the  idols,  do  so  with  a  good 
courage ;  but  do  not  be  too  fierce  with  the  idolators, — they  worship 
the  best  thing  they  know. 

The  Pendenniscs,  the  elder  and  tlie  younger,  waited  with  Lady 
Clavering  and  her  daughter  until  her  ladyship's  carriage  was  an- 
nounced, when  the  elder's  martyrdom  may  be  said  to  have  come  to  an 
end,  for  the  good-natured  Begum  insisted  upon  leaving  him  at  his 
door  in  Bury  Street ;  so  he  took  the  back  seat  of  the  carriage,  after  a 
feeble  bow  or  two,  and  speech  of  thanks,  polite  to  the  last,  and  reso- 
lute in  doing  his  duty.     The  Begum  waved  her  dumpy  little  hand  by 


442 


PENDENNIS. 


way  of  farewell  to  Arthur  and  Foker,  and  Blanche  smiled  languidly- 
cut  upon  the  young  men,  thinking  whether  she  looked  verj-  wan  and 
o-rcen  under  her  rose-coloured  hood,  and  whether  it  was  the  mirrors  at 
Gaunt  House,  or  the  fatigue  and  fever  of  her  own  eyes,  which  made 
her  fancy  herself  so  pale. 

Arthur,  perhaps,  saw  quite  well  how  yellow  Blanche  looked,  but 
did  not  attribute  that  peculiarity  of  her  complexion  to  the  effect  of  the 
looking-glasses,  or  to  any  error  in  his  sight  or  her  own.  Our  young 
man  of  the  world  could  use  his  eyes  very  keenly,  and  could  see 
Blanche's  face  pretty  much  as  nature  had  made  it.  But  for  poor 
Foker  it  had  a  radiance  which  dazzled  and  blinded  him :  he  could  see 
no  more  faults  in  it  than  in  the  sun,  which  was  now  flaring  over  the 
house-tops. 

Amongst  other  wicked  London  habits  which  Pen  had  acquired, 
the  moralist  will  remark  that  he  had  got  to  keep  very  bad  hours ;  and 
often  was  going  to  bed  at  the  time  when  sober  country  people  were 
thinking  of  leaving  it.  Men  get  used  to  one  hour  as  to  another. 
Editors  of  newspapers,  Covent  Garden  market  people,  night  cabmen 
and  coffee-sellers,  chimney-sweeps,  and  gentlemen  and  ladies  of 
fashion  who  frequent  balls,  are  often  quite  lively  at  three  or  four 
o'clock  of  a  morning,  when  ordinary  mortals  are  snoring.  We  have 
shown  in  the  last  chapter  how  Pen  was  in  a  brisk  condition  of  mind 
at  this  period,  inclined  to  smoke  his  cigar  at  ease,  and  to  speak  freely. 

Foker  and  Pen  walked  away  from  Gaunt  House,  then,  indulging 
in  both  the  above  amusements :  or  rather  Pen  talked,  and  Foker 
looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  something.  Pen  was  sarcastic  and 
dandified  when  he  had  been  in  the  company  of  great  folks ;  he  could 
not  help  imitating  some  of  their  airs  and  tones,  and,  having  a  most 
lively  imagination,  mistook  himself  for  a  person  of  importance  very 
easily.  He  rattled  away,  and  attacked  this  person  and  that ;  sneered 
at  Lady  John  Turnbull's  bad  French,  which  her  ladyship  will  intro- 
duce into  all  conversations  in  spite  of  the  sneers  of  everybody;  at 
ISIrs.  Slack  Roper's  extraordinary  costume  and  sham  jewels;  at  the 
old  dandies  and  the  young  ones ; — at  whom  didn't  he  sneer  and 
laugh  ? 

"  You  fire  at  everybody.  Pen — you're  grown  a\%-ful,  that  you  are,' 
Foker  said.  "  Now,  you've  pulled  about  Blondel's  yellow  wig,  and 
Colchicum's  black  one,  why  don't  you  have  a  shy  at  a  brown  one, 
hay?  you  know  whose  I  mean.  It  got  into  Lady  Claverings 
carriage." 

"  Under  my  uncle's  hat  ?  My  uncle  is  a  martyr,  Foker,  my  boy. 
My  uncle  has  been  doing  excruciating  duties  all  night.  He  likes  to 
go  to  bed  rather  early.  He  has  a  dreadful  headache  if  he  sits  up  and 
touches  supper.     He  always  has  the  gout  if  he  walks  or  stands  much 


PENDENNIS.  443 

at  a  ball.  He  has  been  sitting  up,  and  standing  up,  and  supping.  He 
has  gone  home  to  the  gout  and  the  headache,  and  for  my  sake.  Shall 
I  make  fun  of  the  old  boy  ?  no,  not  for  Venice ! " 

"How  do  you  mean  that  he  has  been  doing  it  for  your  sake.''" 
Foker  asked,  looking  rather  alarmed. 

"  Boy !  canst  thou  keep  a  secret  if  I  impart  it  to  thee .-'"  Pen  cried 
out,  in  high  spirits.  "  Art  thou  of  good  counsel  ?  Wilt  thou  swear  t 
Wilt  thou  be  mum,  or  wilt  thou  peach  ?  Wilt  thou  be  silent  and 
hear,  or  wilt  thou  speak  and  die  ? "  And  as  he  spoke,  flinging  himself 
into  an  absurd  theatrical  attitude,  the  men  in  the  cab-stand  in  Picca- 
dilly wondered  and  grinned  at  the  antics  of  the  two  young  swells. 

"  What  the  doose  are  you  driving  at?"  Foker  asked,  looking  very 
much  agitated. 

Pen,  however,  did  not  remark  this  agitation  much,  but  continued 
in  the  same  bantering  and  excited  vein.  "  Henry,  friend  of  my 
youth,"  he  said,  "  and  witness  of  my  early  follies,  though  dull  at  thy 
books,  yet  thou  art  not  altogether  deprived  of  sense, — nay,  blush  not, 
Henrico,  thou  hast  a  good  portion  of  that,  and  of  courage  and  kind- 
ness too,  at  the  service  of  thy  friends.  Were  I  in  a  strait  of  poverty, 
I  would  come  to  my  Poker's  purse.  Were  I  in  grief,  I  would  discharge 
my  grief  upon  his  sympathising  bosom — " 

"  Gammon,  Pen — go  on,"  Foker  said. 

"  I  would,  Henrico,  upon  thy  studs,  and  upon  thy  cambric  worked 
by  the  hands  of  beauty,  to  adorn  the  breast  of  valour !  Know  then, 
friend  of  my  boyhood's  days,  that  Arthur  Pendennis,  of  the  Upper 
Temple,  student-at-law,  feels  that  he  is  growing  lonely,  and  old  Care 
is  furrowing  his  temples,  and  Baldness  is  busy  with  his  crown.  Shall 
we  stop  and  have  a  drop  of  coffee  at  this  stall,  it  looks  very  hot  and 
nice?  Look  how  that  cabman  is  blowing  at  his  saucer.  No,  you 
won't  ?  Aristocrat !  I  resume  my  tale.  I  am  getting  on  in  life.  I 
have  got  devilish  little  money.  I  want  some.  I  am  thinking  of  getting 
some,  and  settling  in  life.  I'm  thinking  of  settling.  Fm  thinking  of 
marrying,  old  boy.  Fm  thinking  of  becoming  a  moral  man  ;  a  steady 
port  and  sherry  character :  with  a  good  reputation  in  my  qiiartier,  and 
a  moderate  establishment  of  two  maids  and  a  man — with  an  occasional 
brougham  to  drive  out  Mrs.  Pendennis,  and  a  house  near  the  Parks 
for  the  accommodation  of  the  children.  Ha !  what  sayest  thou  ? 
Answer  thy  friend,  thou  worthy  child  of  beer.  Speak,  I  adjure  thee 
by  all  thy  vats." 

"  But  you  ain't  got  any  money.  Pen,"  said  the  other,  still  looking 
alarmed. 

"  I  ain't  ?  No,  but  she  'ave.  I  tell  thee  there  is  gold  in  store  for 
me — not  what  you  call  money,  nursed  in  the  lap  of  luxury,  and  cradled 
on  grains,  and  drinking  in  wealth  from  a  thousand  mash-tubs.     What 


.U4  PENDENNIS. 

do  you  know  about  money  ?  What  is  poverty  to  you,  is  splendour  to 
the  hardy  son  of  the  humble  apothecarj'.  You  can't  live  without  an 
establishment,  and  your  houses  in  town  and  country.  A  snug  Httle 
house  somewhere  off  Belgravia,  a  brougham  for  my  wife,  a  decent 
cook,  and  a  fair  bottle  of  wine  for  my  friends  at  home  sometimes ;  these 
simple  necessaries  suffice  for  me,  my  Foker."  And  here  Pendennis 
began  to  look  more  serious.  Without  bantering  further,  Pen  continued, 
"  I've  rather  serious  thoughts  of  settling  and  marrying.  No  man  can 
get  on  in  the  world  without  some  money  at  his  back.  You  must  have 
a  certain  stake  to  begin  with,  before  you  can  go  in  and  play  the  great 
game.  Who  knows  that  I'm  not  going  to  tr)',  old  fellow .'  Worse 
men  than  I  have  won  at  it.  And  as  I  have  not  got  enough  capital 
from  my  fathers,  I  must  get  some  by  my  wife — that's  all." 

They  were  walking  down  Grosv'enor  Street,  as  they  talked,  or 
rather  as  Pen  talked,  in  the  selfish  fulness  of  his  heart ;  and  Mr.  Pen 
must  have  been  too  much  occupied  with  his  own  affairs  to  remark  the 
concern  and  agitation  of  his  neighbour,  for  he  continued — "  We  are  no 
longer  children,  you  know,  you  and  I,  Harry.  Bah !  the  time  of  our 
romance  has  passed  away.  We  don't  marry  for  passion,  but  for 
prudence  and  for  establishment.  What  do  you  take  your  cousin  for  ? 
Because  she  is  a  nice  girl,  and  an  Earl's  daughter,  and  the  old  folks 
wish  it,  and  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  And  you,  Pendennis,"  asked  Foker,  '•  you  ain't  very  fond  of  the 
girl — you're  going  to  marry  .' " 

Pen  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Conimc  ca"  said  he ;  "I  like  her 
well  enough.  She's  pretty  enough ;  she's  clever  enough.  I  think 
she'll  do  very  well.  And  she  has  got  money  enough — that's  the  great 
point.  Psha !  you  know  who  she  is,  don't  you  ?  I  thought  you  were 
sweet  on  her  yourself  one  night  when  we  dined  with  her  mamma. 
It's  little  Amory." 

"  I — 1  thought  so,"  Foker  said:  "  and  has  she  accepted  you.'" 

"  Not  quite,"  Arthur  replied,  with  a  confident  smile,  which  seemed 
to  say,  I  have  but  to  ask,  and  she  comes  to  me  that  instant. 

"  Oh,  not  quite,"  said  Foker ;  "  and  he  broke  out  with  such  a 
dreadful  laugh,  that  Pen,  for  the  first  time,  turned  his  thoughts  from 
himself  towards  his  companion,  and  was  struck  by  the  other's  ghastly 
pale  face. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  Fo  !  what's  the  matter .'  You're  ill,"  Pen  said,  in 
a  tone  of  real  concern. 

"  You  think  it  was  the  champagne  at  Gaunt  House,  don't  you .'' 
It  ain't  that.  Come  in ;  let  me  talk  to  you  for  a  minute.  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is.     D —  it,  let  me  tell  somebody,"  Foker  said. 

They  were  at  Mr.  Poker's  door  by  this  time,  and,  opening  it,  Harry 
walked  with  his  friend  into  his  apartments,  which  were  situated  in  the 


PENDENNIS.  445 

back  part  of  the  house,  and  behind  the  family  dining-room,  where  the 
elder  Foker  received  his  guests,  surrounded  by  pictures  of  himself,  his 
wife,  his  infant  son  on  a  donkey,  and  the  late  Earl  of  Gravesend 
in  his  robes  as  a  peer.  Foker  and  Pen  passed  by  this  chamber,  now 
closed  with  death-like  shutters,  and  entered  into  the  young  man's  own 
quarters.  Dusky  streams  of  sunbeams  were  playing  into  that  room, 
and  lighting  up  poor  Harry's  gallery  of  dancing  girls  and  opera  nymphs 
with  flickering  illuminations. 

"  Look  here !  I  can't  help  telling  you,  Pen,"  he  said.  "  Ever  since 
the  night  we  dined  there,  I'm  so  fond  of  that  girl,  that  I  think  I  shall 
die  if  I  don't  get  her.  I  feel  as  if  I  should  go  mad  sometimes.  I  can't 
stand  it.  Pen.  I  couldn't  bear  to  hear  you  talking  about  her,  just  now, 
about  marrying  her  only  because  she's  money.  Ah,  Pen !  that  ain't 
the  question  in  marrying.  I'd  bet  anything  it  ain't.  Talking  about 
money  and  such  a  girl  as  that,  it's — it's — what  d'ye  caW'^m— you  know 
what  I  mean — I  ain't  good  at  talking — sacrilege,  then.  If  she'd  have 
me,  I'd  take  and  sweep  a  crossing,  that  I  would ! " 

"  Poor  Fo  !  I  don't  think  that  would  tempt  her,"  Pen  said,  eyeing 
his  friend  with  a  great  deal  of  real  good-nature  and  pity.  "  She  is  not 
a  girl  for  love  and  a  cottage." 

"  She  ought  to  be  a  duchess,  I  know  that  very  well,  and  I  know 
she  wouldn't  take  me  unless  I  could  make  her  a  great  place  in  the 
world — for  I  ain't  good  for  anything  myself  much — I  ain't  clever  and 
that  sort  of  thing,"  Foker  said  sadly.  "  If  I  had  all  the  diamonds  that 
all  the  duchesses  and  marchionesses  had  on  to-night,  wouldn't  I  put 
'em  in  her  lap?  But  what's  the  use  of  talking?  I'm  booked  for 
another  race.  It's  that  kills  me.  Pen,  I  can't  get  out  of  it;  though  I 
die,  I  can't  get  out  of  it.  And  though  my  cousin's  a  nice  girl,  and 
I  like  her  very  well,  and  that,  yet  I  hadn't  seen  this  one  when  our 
Governors  settled  that  matter  between  us.  And  when  you  talked,  just 
now,  about  her  doing  very  well,  and  about  her  having  money  enough 
for  both  of  you,  I  thought  to  myself  it  isn't  money  or  mere  liking  a  girl, 
that  ought  to  be  enough  to  make  a  fellow  marry.  He  may  marry,  and 
find  he  likes  somebody  else  better.  All  the  money  in  the  world  won't 
make  you  happy  then.  Look  at  me;  I've  plenty  of  money,  or  shall 
have,  out  of  the  mash-tubs,  as  you  call  'em.  My  Governor  thought 
he'd  made  it  all  right  for  me  in  settling  my  marriage  with  my  cousin. 
I  tell  you  it  won't  do ;  and  when  Lady  Ann  has  got  her  husband,  it 
won't  be  happy  for  either  of  us,  and  she'll  have  the  most  miserable 
beggar  in  town." 

"  Poor  old  fellow  !  "  Pen  said,  with  rather  a  cheap  magnanimity, 
"  I  wish  I  could  help  you.  I  had  no  idea  of  this,  and  that  you  were  so 
wild  about  the  girl.  Do  you  think  she  would  have  you  without  your 
money?    No.    Do  you  think  your  father  would  agree  to  break  off  your 


446  PENDENNIS. 

eno-ao-ement  with  your  cousin  ?  You  know  iiim  very  well,  and  that  he 
would  cast  you  off  rather  than  do  so." 

The  unhappy  Foker  only  groaned  a  reply,  flinging  himself  prostrate 
on  a  sofa,  face  forwards,  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  As  for  my  affair,"  Pen  went  on — "  my  dear  fellow,  if  I  had  thought 
matters  were  so  critical  with  you,  at  least  I  would  not  have  pained  you 
by  choosing  you  as  my  confidant.  And  my  business  is  not  serious,  at 
least  not  as  yet.  I  have  not  spoken  a  word  about  it  to  Miss  Amory. 
Very  likely  she  would  not  have  me  if  I  asked  her.  Only  I  have  had  a 
great  deal  of  talk  about  it  with  my  uncle,  who  says  that  the  match 
might  be  an  eligible  one  for  me.  I'm  ambitious  and  I'm  poor.  And 
it  appears  Lady  Clavering  will  give  her  a  good  deal  of  money,  and  Sir 
Francis  might  be  got  to — never  mind  the  rest.  Nothing  is  settled, 
Harry.  They  are  going  out  of  town  directly.  I  promise  you  I  won't 
ask  her  before  she  goes.  There's  no  hurry:  there's  time  for  every- 
body. But  suppose  you  got  her,  Foker  ?  Remember  what  you  said 
about  marriages  just  now,  and  the  misery  of  a  man  who  doesn't  care 
for  his  wife ;  and  what  sort  of  a  wife  would  you  have  who  didn't  care 
for  her  husband  ? " 

"  But  she  would  care  for  me,"  said  Foker,  from  his  sofa — "  that 
is,  I  think  she  would.  Last  night  only,  as  we  were  dancing,  she 
said—" 

"What  did  she  say?"  Pen  cried,  starting  up  in  great  wrath.  But 
he  saw  his  own  meaning  more  clearly  than  Foker,  and  broke  oft"  with 
a  laugh — "  Well,  never  mind  what  she  said,  Harry.  Miss  Amor)-  is  a 
clever  girl,  and  says  numbers  of  civil  things — to  you — to  me,  perhaps 
— and  who  the  deuce  knows  to  whom  besides  1  -Nothing's  settled,  old 
boy.  At  least,  my  heart  won't  break  if  I  don't  get  her.  Win  her  if 
you  can,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  her.  Good-by !  Don't  think  about 
what  I  said  to  you.  I  was  excited,  and  confoundedly  thirsty  in  those 
hot  rooms,  and  didn't,  I  suppose,  put  enough  seltzer-water  into  the 
champagne.  Goodnight!  I'll  keep  your  counsel  too.  'Mum'  is  the 
word  between  us ;  and  '  let  there  be  a  fair  fight,  and  let  the  best  man 
win,'  as  Peter  Crawley  says." 

So  saying,  ]\Ir.  Arthur  Pendennis,  giving  a  very  queer  and  rather 
dangerous  look  at  his  companion,  shook  him  by  the  hand,  with  some- 
thing of  that  sort  of  cordiality  which  befitted  his  just  repeated  simile  of 
the  boxing-match,  and  which  Mr.  Bendigo  displays  when  he  shakes 
hands  with  Mr.  Caunt  before  they  fight  each  other  for  the  champions 
belt  and  two  hundred  pounds  a  side.  Foker  returned  his  friend's 
salute  with  an  imploring  look,  and  a  piteous  squeeze  of  the  hand,  sank 
back  on  his  cushions  again,  and  Pen,  putting  on  his  hat,  strode  forth 
into  the  air,  and  almost  over  the  body  of  the  matutinal  housemaid, 
who  was  rubbing  the  steps  at  the  door. 


PENDENNIS.  447 

"And  so  he  wants  her  too,  does  he?"  thought  Pen  as  he  marched 
along — and  noted  within  himself,  with  a  fatal  keenness  of  perception 
and  almo&t  an  infernal  mischief,  that  the  very  pains  and  tortures 
which  that  honest  heart  of  Foker's  was  suffering  gave  a  zest  and  an 
impetus  to  his  own  pursuit  of  Blanche :  if  pursuit  that  might  be  called 
which  had  been  no  pursuit  as  yet,  but  mere  sport  and  idle  dallying. 
"  She  said  something  to  him,  did  she  ?  perhaps  she  gave  him  the 
fellow  flower  to  this  ;"  and  he  took  out  of  his  coat  and  twiddled  in  his 
thumb  and  finger  a  poor  little  shrivelled  crumpled  bud  that  had  faded 
and  blackened  with  the  heat  and  flare  of  the  night. — "  I  wonder  to 
how  many  more  she  has  given  her  artless  tokens  of  affection — the  little 
flirt" — and  he  flung  his  into  the  gutter,  where  the  water  may  have 
refreshed  it,  and  where  any  amateur  of  rosebuds  may  have  picked  it 
up.  And  then  bethinking  him  that  the  day  was  quite  bright,  and  that 
the  passers-by  might  be  staring  at  his  beard  and  white  neckcloth,  our 
modest  young  gentleman  took  a  cab  and  drove  to  the  Temple. 

Ah !  is  this  the  boy  that  prayed  at  his  mother's  knee  but  a  few 
years  since,  and  for  whom  very  likely  at  this  hour  of  morning  she  is 
praying?  Is  this  jaded  and  selfish  worldling  the  lad  who,  a  short 
while  back,  was  ready  to  fling  away  his  worldly  all,  his  hope,  his 
ambition,  his  chance  of  life,  for  his  love  ?  This  is  the  man  you  are 
proud  of,  old  Pendennis.  You  boast  of  having  formed  him :  and  of 
having  reasoned  him  out  of  his  absurd  romance  and  folly — and 
groaning  in  your  bed  over  your  pains  and  rheumatisms,  satisfy  your- 
self still  by  thinking,  that,  at  last,  that  lad  will  do  something  to  better 
himself  in  life,  and  that  the  Pendennises  will  take  a  good  place  in  the 
world.  And  is  he  the  only  one,  who  in  his  progress  through  this  dark 
life  goes  wilfully  or  fatally  astray,  whilst  the  natural  truth  and  love 
which  should  illumine  him  grow  dim  in  the  poisoned  air,  and  suffice 
to  light  him  no  more  ? 

When  Pen  was  gone  away,  poor  Harry  Foker  got  up  from  the  sofa, 
and  taking  out  from  his  waistcoat — the  splendidly  buttoned,  the  gor- 
geously embroidered,  the  work  of  his  mamma — a  little  white  rosebud, 
he  drew  from  his  dressing-case,  also  the  maternal  present,  a  pair  of 
scissors,  with  which  he  nipped  carefully  the  stalk  of  the  flower,  and 
placing  it  in  a  glass  of  water  opposite  his  bed,  he  sought  refuge  there 
from  care  and  bitter  remembrances. 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  Miss  Blanche  Amory  had  more  than  one 
rose  in  her  bouquet,  and  why  should  not  the  kind  young  creature  give 
out  of  her  superfluity,  and  make  as  many  partners  as  possible  happy? 


448  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

MONSEIGNEUR    S'AMUSE, 

THE  exertions  of  that  last  night  at  Gaunt  House  had  proved  almost 
too  much  for  Major  Pendennis ;  and  as  soon  as  he  could  move 
his  weary  old  body  with  safety,  he  transported  himself  groaning  to 
Buxton,  and  sought  relief  in  the  healing  waters  of  that  place.  Parlia- 
ment broke  up.  Sir  Francis  Clavering  and  family  left  town,  and  the 
affairs  which  we  have  just  mentioned  to  the  reader  were  not  advanced 
in  the  brief  interval  of  a  few  days  or  weeks  which  have  occurred 
between  this  and  the  last  chapter.  The  town  was,  however,  emptied 
since  then. 

The  season  v.as  now  come  to  a  conclusion :  Pen's  neighbours,  the 
lawyers,  were  gone  upon  circuit,  and  his  more  fashionable  friends  had 
taken  their  passports  for  the  continent,  or  had  fled  for  health  or  excite- 
ment to  the  Scotch  moors.  Scarce  a  man  was  to  be  seen  in  the  bow- 
windows  of  the  clubs,  or  on  the  solitary  Pall  Mall  pavement.  The 
red  jackets  had  disappeared  from  before  the  Palace-gate  :  the  trades- 
men of  St.  James's  were  abroad  taking  their  pleasure :  the  tailors  had 
grown  mustachios  and  were  gone  up  the  Rhine :  the  bootmakers  were 
at  Ems  or  Baden,  blushing  when  they  met  their  customers  at  those 
places  of  recreation,  or  punting  beside  their  creditors  at  the  gambling- 
tables  :  the  clerg)-men  of  St.  James's  only  preached  to  half  a  congrega- 
tion, in  which  there  was  not  a  single  sinner  of  distinction :  the  band 
in  Kensington  Gardens  had  shut  up  their  instruments  of  brass  and 
trumpets  of  silver :  only  two  or  three  old  flies  and  chaises  crawled  by 
the  banks  of  the  Serpentine,  and  Clarence  Bulbul,  who  was  retained 
in  town  by  his  arduous  duties  as  a  Treasury  clerk,  when  he  took  his 
afternoon  ride  in  Rotten  Row,  compared  its  loneliness  to  the  vastness 
of  the  Arabian  desert,  and  himself  to  a  Bedouin  wending  his  way 
through  that  dusty  solitude.  Warrington  stowed  away  a  quantity  of 
Cavendish  tobacco  in  his  carpet-bag,  and  betook  himself,  as  his  custom 
was  in  the  vacation,  to  his  brothers  house  in  Norfolk.  Pen  was  left 
alone  in  chambers  for  a  while,  for  this  man  of  fashion  could  not  quit 
the  metropolis  when  he  chose  always :  and  was  at  present  detained  by 
the  affairs  of  his  newspaper,  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  of  which  he 
acted  as  the  editor  and  charge-d'affaires  during  the  temporary  absence 


PENDENNIS.  449 

of  the  chief,  Captain  Shandon,  who  was  with  his  family  at  the  salutary 
watering-place  of  Boulogne  sur  Mer. 

Although,  as  we  have  seen,  Mr.  Pen  had  pronounced  himself  for 
years  past  to  be  a  man  perfectly  dlase  and  wearied  of  life,  yet  the  truth 
is  that  he  was  an  exceedingly  healthy  young  fellow  still ;  with  a  tine 
appetite,  which  he  satisfied  with  the  greatest  relish  and  satisfaction  at 
least  once  a  day ;  and  a  constant  desire  for  society,  which  showed  him 
to  be  anything  but  misanthropical.  If  he  could  not  get  a  good  dinner 
he  sate  down  to  a  bad  one  with  entire  contentment ;  if  he  could  not  pro- 
cure the  company  of  witty  or  great  or  beautiful  persons,  he  put  up  with 
;;  any  society  that  came  to  hand ;  and  was  perfectly  satisfied  in  a  tavern 
parlour  or  on  board  a  Greenwich  steamboat,  or  in  a  jaunt  to  Hamp- 

i  stead  with  Mr.  Finucane,  his  colleague  at  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette;"  or 
in  a  visit  to  the  summer  theatres  across  the  river :  or  to  the  Royal 
Gardens  of  Vauxhall,  v.'here  he  was  on  terms  of  friendship  with  the 
great  Simpson,  and  where  he  shook  the  principal  comic  singer  or  the 
lovely  equestrian  of  the  arena  by  the  hand.  And  while  he  could 
watch  the  grimaces  or  the  graces  of  these  with  a  satiric  humour  that 
was  not  deprived  of  sympathy,  he  could  look  on  with  an  eye  of  kind- 
ness at  the  lookers  on  too ;  at  the  roystering  youth  bent  upon  enjoy- 
ment, and  here  taking  it :  at  the  honest  parents,  with  their  delighted 
children  laughing  and  clapping  their  hands  at  the  show :  at  the  poor 
outcasts,  whose  laughter  was  less  innocent  though  perhaps  louder,  and 
who  brought  their  shame  and  their  youth  here,  to  dance  and  be  merry 
till  the  dawn  at  least ;  and  to  get  bread  and  drown  care.  Of  this 
sympathy  with  all  conditions  of  men  Arthur  often  boasted  :  he  was 
pleased  to  possess  it :  and  said  that  he  hoped  thus  to  the  last  he 
should  retain  it.  As  another  man  has  an  ardour  for  art  or  music,  or 
natural  science,  Mr.  Pen  said  that  anthropology  was  his  favourite 
pursuit ;  and  had  his  eyes  always  eagerly  open  to  its  infinite  varieties 
and  beauties  :  contemplating  with  an  unfailing  delight  all  specimens 
of  it  in  all  places  to  which  he  resorted,  whether  it  was  the  coquetting 
of  a  wrinkled  dowager  in  a  ball-room,  or  a  high-bred  young  beauty 
blushing  in  her  prime  there ;  whether  it  'was  a  hulking  guardsman 
coaxing  a  servant-girl  in  the  Park — or  innocent  little  Tommy  that  was 
feeding  the  ducks  whilst  the  nurse  listened.  And  indeed  a  man,  whose 
heart  is  pretty  clean,  can  indulge  in  this  pursuit  with  an  enjoyment 
that  never  ceases,  and  is  only  perhaps  the  more  keen  because  it  is 
secret  and  has  a  touch  of  sadness  in  it ;  because  he  is  of  his  mood  and 
humour  lonely,  and  apart  although  not  alone. 

Yes,  Pen  used  to  brag  and  talk  in  his  impetuous  way  to  Warrington. 
"  I  was  in  love  so  fiercely  in  my  youth,  that  1  have  burned  out  that 
flame  for  ever,  I  think ;  and  if  ever  I  marry,  it  will  be  a  marriage  of 
reason  that  I  will  make,  with  a  well-bred,  good-tempered,  good-looldrig 

20 


450  PEA'DEALYIS. 

person  who  has  a  little  money  and  so  forth,  that  will  cushion  our 
carriage  in  its  course  through  life.  As  for  romance,  it  is  all  done ; 
I  have  spent  that  out,  and  am  old  before  my  time — I'm  proud 
of  it." 

"  Stuff !"  growled  the  other,  "you  fancied  you  were  getting  bald 
the  other  day,  and  bragged  about  it  as  you  do  about  everj'thing.  But 
you  began  to  use  the  bear's-grease  pot  directly  the  hairdresser  told 
you ;  and  are  scented  like  a  barber  ever  since." 

"  You  are  Diogenes,"  the  other  answered,  "  and  you  want  every 
man  to  live  in  a  tub  like  yourself  Violets  smell  better  than  stale 
tobacco,  you  grizzly  old  cynic."  But  Mr.  Pen  was  blushing  whilst  he 
made  this  reply  to  his  unromantical  friend,  and  indeed  cared  a  great 
deal  more  about  himself  still  than  such  a  philosopher  perhaps  should 
have  done.  Indeed,  considering  that  he  was  careless  about  the  world, 
Mr.  Pen  ornamented  his  person  with  no  small  pains  in  order  to  make 
himself  agreeable  to  it,  and  for  a  weary  pilgrim  as  he  was,  wore  very- 
tight  boots  and  bright  varnish. 

It  was  in  this  dull  season  of  the  year  then,  of  a  shining  Friday 
night  in  autumn,  that  Mr.  Pendennis,  having  completed  at  his  news- 
paper office  a  brilliant  leading  article — such  as  Captain  Shandon 
himself  might  have  written,  had  the  Captain  been  in  good  humour, 
and  inclined  to  work,  which  he  never  would  do  except  under  com- 
pulsion— that  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  having  written  his  article,  and 
reviewed  it  approvingly,  as  it  lay  before  him  in  its  wet  proof-sheet  at 
the  office  of  the  paper,  bethought  him  that  he  would  cross  the  water, 
and  regale  himself  with  the  fireworks  and  other  amusements  of 
Vauxhall.  So  he  affably  put  in  his  pocket  the  order  which  admitted 
"  Editor  of  Pall  Mall  Gazette  and  friend  "  to  that  place  of  recreation, 
and  paid  with  the  coin  of  the  realm  a  sufficient  sum  to  enable  him  to 
cross  Waterloo  Bridge.  The  walk  thence  to  the  Gardens  was  pleasant, 
the  stars  were  shining  in  the  skies  above,  looking  down  upon  the  royal 
property,  whence  the  rockets  and  Roman  candles  had  not  yet  ascended 
to  outshine  the  stars. 

Before  you  enter  the  enchanted  ground,  where  twenty  thousand 
additional  lamps  are  burned  every  night  as  usual,  most  of  us  have 
passed  through  the  black  and  dreary  passage  and  wickets  which  hide 
the  splendours  of  Vauxhall  from  uninitiated  men.  In  the  walls  of  this 
passage  are  two  holes  strongly  illuminated,  in  the  midst  of  which  you 
see  two  gentlemen  at  desks,  where  they  will  take  either  your  money  as 
a  private  individual,  or  your  order  of  admission  if  you  are  provided 
with  that  passport  to  the  Gardens.  Pen  went  to  exhibit  his  ticket  at 
the  last-named  orifice,  where,  however,  a  gentleman  and  two  ladies 
were  already  in  parley  before  him. 

The  gentleman,  whose  hat  was  very  much  on  one  side,  and  who 


PENDENNIS.  451 

wore  a  short  and  shabby  cloak  in  an  excessively  smart  manner,  was 
crying  out  in  a  voice  which  Pen  at  once  recognised — 

"  Bedad,  sir,  if  ye  doubt  me  honour,  will  ye  obleege  me  by  slipping 
out  of  that  box,  and — " 

'•  Lor',  Capting  ! "  cried  the  elder  lady. 

"  Don't  bother  me,"  said  the  man  in  the  box. 

"  And  ask  Mr.  Hodgen  himself,  who's  in  the  gyardens,  to  let  these 
leedies  pass.  Don't  be  froightened,  me  dear  madam,  I'm  not  going 
to  quar'l  with  this  gintleman,  at  anyreet  before  leedies.  Will  ye  go, 
sir,  and  desoire  Mr.  Hodgen  (whose  orther  I  keem  in  with,  and  he's 
me  most  intemate  friend,  and  I  know  he's  goan'  to  sing  the  '  Body 
Snatcher'  here  to-noight),  with  Captain  Costigan's  compliments,  to 
stip  out  and  let  in  the  leedies — for  meself,  sir,  oi've  seen  Vauxhall,  and 
I  scawrun  any  interfayrance  on  moi  account :  but  for  these  leedies,  one 
of  them  has  never  been  there,  and  oi  should  think  ye'd  har'ly  take 
advantage  of  me  misfartune  in  losing  the  tickut,  to  deproive  her  of  her 
pleasure." 

'•  It  ain't  no  use.  Captain.  I  can't  go  about  your  business,"  the 
check-taker  said ;  on  which  the  Captain  swore  an  oath,  and  the  elder 
lady  said,  "  Lor',  'ow  provokin' !  " 

As  for  the  young  one,  she  looked  up  at  the  Captain  and  said, 
"  Never  mind,  Captain  Costigan,  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  go  at  all. 
Come  away,  mamma."  And  with  this,  although  she  did  not  want  to 
go  at  all,  her  feelings  overcame  her,  and  she  began  to  cry. 

"  Me  poor  child ! "  the  Captain  said.  "  Can  ye  see  that,  sir,  and 
will  ye  not  let  this  innocent  creature  in  ?  " 

"  It  ain't  my  business,"  cried  the  door-keeper,  peevishly,  out  of  the 
illuminated  box.  And  at  this  minute  Arthur  came  up,  and  recognising 
Costigan,  said,  "  Don't  you  know  me.  Captain.?  Pendennis!"  And 
he  took  off  his  hat  and  made  a  bow  to  the  two  ladies.  "  Me  dear  boy ! 
Me  dear  friend!"  cried  the  Captain,  extending  towards  Pendennis  the 
grasp  of  friendship ;  and  he  rapidly  explained  to  the  other  what  he 
called  "a  most  unluckee  conthratong."  He  had  an  order  for  Vauxhall, 
admitting  two,  from  Mr.  Hodgen,  then  within  the  Gardens,  and- 
singing  (as  he  did  at  the  Back  Kitchen  and  the  nobility's  concerts,)  the 
"  Body  Snatcher,"  the  "  Death  of  General  Wolfe,"  the  "  Banner  of 
Blood,"  and  other  favourite  melodies ;  and,  having  this  order  for  the 
admission  of  two  persons,  he  thought  that  it  would  admit  three,  and 
had  come  accordingly  to  the  Gardens  with  his  friends.  But,  on  his 
way,  Captain  Costigan  had  lost  the  paper  of  admission — it  was  not 
forthcoming  at  all ;  and  the  leedies  must  go  back  again,  to  the  great 
disappointment  of  one  of  them,  as  Pendennis  saw. 

Arthur  had  a  great  deal  of  good-nature  for  everybody,  and  how 
could  he  refuse  his  sympathy  in  such  a  case  as  this  .-*     He  had  seen 


452 


FENDENNIS. 


the  innocent  face  as  it  looked  up  to  the  Captain,  the  appealing  look 
of  the  girl,  the  piteous  quiver  of  the  mouth,  and  the  final  outburst  of 
tears.  If  it  had  been  his  last  guinea  in  the  world,  he  must  have  paid 
it  to  have  given  the  poor  little  thing  pleasure.  She  turned  the  sad 
imploring  eyes  away  directly  they  lighted  upon  a  stranger,  and  began 
to  wipe  them  with  her  handkerchief.  Arthur  looked  very  handsome 
and  kind  as  he  stood  before  the  women,  with  his  hat  off,  blushing, 
bowing,  generous,  a  gentleman.  "  Who  are  they  ?  "  he  asked  of  him- 
self.    He  thought  he  had  seen  the  elder  lady  before. 

"  If  I  can  be  of  any  service  to  you,  Captain  Costigan,"  the  young 
man  said,  "  I  hope  you  will  command  me ;  is  there  any  difficulty  about 
taking  these  ladies  into  the  garden  ?  Will  you  kindly  make  use  of  my 
purse.''  And — and  I  have  a  ticket  myself  which  will  admit  two — I 
hope,  ma'am,  you  will  permit  me  ?" 

The  first  impulse  of  the  Prince  of  Fairoaks  was  to  pay  for  the 
whole  party,  and  to  make  away  with  his  newspaper  order  as  poor 
Costigan  had  done  with  his  own  ticket.  But  his  instinct,  and  the 
appearance  of  the  two  women,  told  him  that  they  would  be  better 
pleased  if  he  did  not  give  himself  the  airs  oi  z.  grand  seigiietir,  and  he 
handed  his  purse  to  Costigan,  and  laughingly  pulled  out  his  ticket  with 
one  hand,  as  he  offered  the  other  to  the  elder  of  the  ladies — ladies  was 
not  the  word — they  had  bonnets  and  shawls,  and  collars  and  ribbons, 
and  the  youngest  showed  a  pretty  little  foot  and  boot  under  her  modest 
grey  gown,  but  his  Highness  of  Fairoaks  was  courteous  to  every  person 
who  wore  a  petticoat,  whatever  its  texture  was,  and  the  humbler  the 
wearer  only  the  more  stately  and  polite  in  his  demeanour. 

"  Fanny,  take  the  gentleman's  arm,"  the  elder  said ;  "  since  you 
will  be  so  very  kind — I've  seen  you  often  come  in  at  our  gate,  sir,  and 
go  in  to  Captain  Strong's  at  No.  4." 

Fanny  made  a  little  curtsey,  and  put  her  hand  under  Arthur's  arm. 
It  had  on  a  shabby  little  glove,  but  it  was  pretty  and  small.  She  was 
not  a  child,  but  she  was  scarcely  a  woman  as  yet  j  her  tears  had  dried 
up,  her  cheek  mantled  with  youthful  blushes,  and  her  eyes  glistened 
with  pleasure  and  gratitude,  as  she  looked  up  into  Arthurs  kind  face. 

Arthur,  in  a  protecting  way,  put  his  other  hand  upon  the  little  one 
resting  on  his  arm.  "  Fannys  a  ver)'  pretty  little  name,"  he  said ; 
"  and  so  you  know  me,  do  you  .'' " 

"  We  keep  the  lodge,  sir,  at  Shepherd's  Inn,''  Fanny  said  with  a 
curtsey ;  "  and  I've  never  been  at  "Vauxhall,  sir,  and  Pa  didn't  like  me 
to  go— and— and— 0—0— law,  how  beautiful !"  She  shrank  back  as 
she  spoke,  starting  with  wonder  and  delight  as  she  saw  the  Royal 
Gardens  blaze  before  her  with  a  hundred  million  of  lamps,  with  a 
splendour  such  as  the  finest  fairy  tale,  the  finest  pantomime  she  had 
ever  witnessed  at  the  theatre,  had  never  realised.     Pen  was  pleased 


PENDENNIS.  453 

with  her  pleasure,  and  pressed  to  his  side  the  Utile  hand  which  clung 
so  kindly  to  him.  "  What  would  I  not  give  for  a  little  of  this 
pleasure  ? "  said  the  blas^  young  man. 

"  Your  purse,  Pendennis,  me  dear  boy,"  said  the  Captain's  voice 
behind  him.  "  Will  ye  count  it  ?  it's  all  roight — no — ye  thrust  in  old 
Jack  Costigan  (he  thrusts  me,  ye  see,  madam).  Ye've  been  me  pre- 
server. Pen,  (I've  known  'um  since  choildhood,  Mrs.  Bolton ;  he's  the 
proprietor  of  Fairoaks  Castle,  and  many's  the  cooper  of  clar't  I've 
dthrunk  there  with  the  first  nobilitee  of  his  neetive  countee) — Mr.  Pen- 
dennis, ye've  been  me  preserver,  and  oi  thank  ye ;  me  daughtther  will 
thank  ye ; — Mr.  Simpson,  your  humble  servant,  sir." 

If  Pen  was  magnificent  in  bis  courtesy  to  the  ladies,  what  was  his 
splendour  in  comparison  to  Captain  Costigan's  bowing  here  and  there, 
and  crying  bravo  to  the  singers  ? 

A  man,  descended  like  Costigan,  from  a  long  line  of  Hibernian 
kings,  chieftains,  and  other  magnates  and  sheriffs  of  the  county,  had 
of  course  too  much  dignity  and  self-respect  to  walk  arrum-in-arrum  (as 
the  Captain  phrased  it)  with  a  lady  who  occasionally  swept  his  room 
out,  and  cooked  his  mutton-chops.  In  the  course  of  their  journey 
from  Shepherd's  Inn  to  Vauxhall  Gardens,  Captain  Costigan  had 
walked  by  the  side  of  the  two  ladies,  in  a  patronising  and  affable 
manner  pointing  out  to  them  the  edifices  worthy  of  note,  and  dis- 
coorsing,  according  to  his  wont,  about  other  cities  and  countries 
which  he  had  visited,  and  the  people  of  rank  and  fashion  with  whom 
he  had  the  honour  of  an  acquaintance.  Nor  could  it  be  expected, 
that,  arrived  in  the  Royal  property,  and  strongly  illuminated  by  the 
flare  of  the  twenty  thousand  additional  lamps,  the  Captain  could  relax 
from  his  dignity,  and  give  an  arm  to  a  lady  who  was,  in  fact,  little 
better  than  a  housekeeper  or  charwoman. 

But  Pen,  on  his  part,  had  no  such  scruples.  Miss  Fanny  Bolton 
did  not  make  his  bed  nor  sweep  his  chambers ;  and  he  did  not  choose 
to  let  go  his  pretty  little  partner.  As  for  Fanny,  her  colour  heightened, 
and  her  bright  eyes  shone  the  brighter  with  pleasure,  as  she  leaned  for 
protection  on  the  arm  of  such  a  fine  gentleman  as  Mr.  Pen.  And  she 
looked  at  numbers  of  other  ladies  in  the  place,  and  at  scores  of  other 
gentlemen  under  whose  protection  they  were  walking  here  and  there ; 
and  she  thought  that  her  gentleman  was  handsomer  and  grander 
looking  than  any  other  gent  there.  Of  course  there  were  votaries  of 
pleasure  of  all  ranks  in  the  garden — rakish  young  surgeons,  fast  young 
clerks  and  commercialists,  occasional  dandies  of  the  Guard  regiments, 
and  the  rest.  Old  Lord  Colchicum  was  there  in  attendance  upon  Made- 
moiselle Caracoline,  who  had  been  riding  in  the  ring ;  and  who  talked 
her  native  French  very  loud,  and  used  idiomatic  expressions  of  exceed- 
ing strength  as  she  walked  about,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  lordship. 


454  PENDENNIS, 

Colchicum  was  in  attendance  upon  Mademoiselle  Caracoline, 
little  Tom  Tufthunt  was  in  attendance  upon  Lord  Colchicum ;  and 
rather  pleased,  too,  with  his  position.  When  Don  Juan  scales  the 
wall,  there's  never  a  want  of  a  Leporello  to  hold  the  ladder.  Tom 
Tufthunt  was  quite  happy  to  act  as  friend  to  the  elderly  Viscount,  and 
to  carve  the  fowl,  and  to  make  the  salad  at  supper.  When  Pen  and 
his  young  lady  met  the  Viscount's  party,  that  noble  peer  only  gave 
Arthur  a  passing  leer  of  recognition  as  his  lordship's  eyes  passed  from 
Pen's  face  under  the  bonnet  of  Pen's  companion.  But  Tom  Tufthunt 
wagged  his  head  very  good-naturedly  at  Mr.  Arthur,  and  said,  "  Hov\- 
are  you,  old  boy?"  and  looked  extremely  knowing  at  the  godfather  of 
this  history. 

"  That  is  the  great  rider  at  Astley's  ;  I  have  seen  her  there,''  Miss 
Bolton  said,  looking  after  Mademoiselle  Caracoline ;  "  and  who  is  that 
old  man  ?  is  it  not  the  gentleman  in  the  ring  ?" 

"  That  is  Lord  Viscount  Colchicum,  Miss  Fanny,"  said  Pen,  with 
an  air  of  protection.  He  meant  no  harm  ;  he  was  pleased  to  patronise 
the  j'oung  girl,  and  he  was  not  displeased  that  she  should  be  so  pretty, 
and  that  she  should  be  hanging  upon  his  arm,  and  that  yonder  elderly 
Don  Juan  should  have  seen  her  there. 

Fanny  was  very  pretty;  her  eyes  were  dark  and  briUiant;  her  teeth 
were  like  little  pearls ;  her  mouth  w-as  almost  as  red  as  Mademoiselle 
Caracohne's  when  the  latter  had  put  on  her  vermilion.  And  what  a 
difference  there  was  between  the  one's  voice  and  the  other's,  between 
the  girl's  laugh  and  the  woman's!  It  was  only  verj-  lately,  indeed, 
that  Fanny,  when  looking  in  the  little  glass  over  the  Bows-Costigan 
mantelpiece  as  she  was  dusting  it,  had  begun  to  suspect  that  she  was 
a  beauty.  But  a  year  ago,  she  was  a  clumsy,  gawky  girl,  at  whom  her 
father  sneered,  and  of  whom  the  girls  at  the  day-school  (]\Iiss  Minifers. 
Newcastle  Street,  Strand ;  Miss  M.,  the  younger  sister,  took  the  lead- 
ing business  at  the  Norwich  circuit  in  182 — ;  and  she  herself  had 
played  for  two  seasons  with  some  credit  T.  R,  E.  O.,  T.  R.  S.  W.,  until 
she  fell  down  a  trap-door  and  broke  her  leg)  ;  the  girls  at  Fannj-'s 
school,  we  say,  took  no  account  of  her,  and  thought  her  a  dowdy  little 
creature  as  long  as  she  remained  under  Miss  Minifer's  instruction. 
And  it  was  unremarked  and  almost  unseen  in  the  dark  porter's  lodge 
of  Shepherd's  Inn,  that  this  little  flower  bloomed  into  beauty. 

So  this  young  person  hung  upon  Mr.  Pen's  arm,  and  they  paced 
the  gardens  together.  Empty  as  London  was,  there  were  still  some 
two  millions  of  people  left  lingering  about  it,  and  amongst  them  one  or 
two  of  the  acquaintances  of  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis. 

Amongst  them,  silent  and  alone,  pale,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  and  a  rueful  nod  of  the  head  to  Arthur  as  they  met,  passed 
Henry  Foker,  Esq.     Young  Henr)'  was  trj'ing  to  ease  his  mind  by 


i 


PENDENNIS.  455 

moving  from  place  to  place,  and  from  excitement  to  excitement.  • 
But  he  thought  about  Blanche  as  he  sauntered  in  the  dark  walks ; 
he  thought  about  Blanche  as  he  looked  at  the  devices  of  the  lamps. 
He  consulted  the  fortune-teller  about  her,  and  was  disappointed  when 
that  gipsy  told  him  that  he  was  in  love  with  a  dark  lady  who  would 
make  him  happy;  and  at  the  concert,  though  Mr.  Momus  sang  his 
most  stunning  comic  songs,  and  asked  his  most  astonishing  riddles, 
never  did  a  kind  smile  come  to  visit  Foker's  lips.  In  fact,  he  never 
heard  Mr.  Momus  at  all. 

Pen  and  Miss  Bolton  were  hard  by  listening  to  the  same  concert, 
and  the  latter  remarked,  and  Pen  laughed  at,  Mr.  Foker's  woe-begone 
face. 

Fanny  asked  what  it  was  that  made  that  odd-looking  little  man  so 
dismal.?  "I  think  he  is  crossed  in  love!"  Pen  said.  "Isn't  that 
enough  to  make  any  man  dismal,  Fanny  ? "  And  he  looked  down  at 
her,  splendidly  protecting  her,  like  Egmont  at  Clara  in  Goethe's  play, 
or  Leicester  at  Amy,  in  Scott's  novel. 

"  Crossed  in  love,  is  he  ?  poor  gentleman,"  said  Fanny  with  a  sigh, 
and  her  eyes  turned  round  towards  him  with  no  little  kindness  and 
pity — but  Harry  did  not  see  the  beautiful  dark  eyes. 

"  How  dy  do,  Mr,  Pendennis .'"' — a  voice  broke  in  here — it  was  that 
of  a  young  man  in  a  large  white  coat  with  a  red  neckcloth,  over  which 
a  dingy  shirt-collar  was  turned  so  as  to  exhibit  a  dubious  neck — with  a 
large  pin  of  bullion  or  other  metal,  and  an  imaginative  waistcoat  with 
exceedingly  fanciful  glass  buttons,  and  trowsers  that  cried  with  a  loud 
voice,  "  Come,  look  at  me,  and  see  how  cheap  and  tawdry  I  am ;  my 
master,  what  a  dirty  buck  ! "  and  a  little  stick  in  one  pocket  of  his  coat, 
and  a  lady  in  pink  satin  on  the  other  arm — "  How  dy  do — Forget  me, 
I  daresay  ?     Huxter,— Clavering." 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Huxter?"  the  Prince  of  Fairoaks  said  in 
his  most  princely  manner.     "  I  hope  you  are  very  well  ?" 

"  Pretty   bobbish,   thanky." — And    Mr.  Huxter  wagged  his   head. 

"  I  say,  Pendennis,   you've   been    coming  it  uncommon  strong  since 

we  had  the  row  at  Wapshot's,  don't  you  remember  ?     Great  author, 

hay  ?     Go  about  with  the  swells.     Saw  your  name  in  the  '  Morning 

Post.'     I  suppose  you're  too  much  of  a  swell  to  come  and  have  a  bit 

of  supper  with  an  old  friend  1 — Charterhouse  Lane  to-morrow  night, 

— some  devilish  good  fellows  from  Bartholomew's,  and  some  stunning 

gin  punch.     Here's  my  card."     And  with  this  Mr.  Huxter  released 

^     his  hand  from  the  pocket  where  his  cane  was,  and  pulling  off  the  top 

H     of  his  card-case  with  his  teeth  produced  thence  a  visiting  ticket,  which 

H  -  he  handed  to  Pen. 

H  "  You  are  exceedingly  kind,  I  am  sure,"  said  Pen  ;  "  but  I  regret 


456  PENDENNIS. 

night."  And  the  Marquis  of  Fairoaks,  wondering  that  such  a  creature 
as  this  could  have  the  audacity  to  give  him  a  card,  put  Mr.  Huxter's 
card  into  his  waistcoat  pocket  with  a  lofty  courtesy.  Possibly 
Mr.  Samuel  Huxter  was  not  aware  that  there  was  any  great  social 
difference  between  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  and  himself.  Mr.  Huxter's 
father  was  a  surgeon  and  apothecary  at  Clavering,  just  as  Mr.  Pen- 
dcnnis's  papa  had  been  a  surgeon  and  apothecarj'  at  Bath.  But  the 
impudence  of  some  men  is  beyond  all  calculation. 

"  Well,  old  fellow,  never  mind,"  said  Mr.  Huxter,  who,  always 
frank  and  familiar,  was  from  vinous  excitement  even  more  affable 
than  usual.  "  If  ever  you  are  passing,  look  up  at  our  place, — I'm 
mostly  at  home  Saturdays  ;  and  there's  generally  a  cheese  in  the 
cupboard.  Ta,  ta. — There's  the  bell  for  the  fireworks  ringing.  Come 
along,  Mary."  And  he  set  off  running  with  the  rest  of  the  crowd  in 
the  direction  of  the  fireworks. 

So  did  Pen  presently,  when  this  agreeable  youth  was  out  of  sight, 
begin  to  run  with  his  little  companion  ;  Mrs.  Bolton  following  after 
them,  with  Captain  Costigan  at  her  side.  But  the  Captain  was  too 
majestic  and  dignified  in  his  movements  to  run  for  friend  or  enemy, 
and  he  pursued  his  course  with  the  usual  jaunty  swagger  which 
distinguished  his  steps,  so  that  he  and  his  companion  were  speedily 
distanced  by  Pen  and  Miss  Fanny. 

Perhaps  Arthur  forgot,  or  perhaps  he  did  not  choose  to  remember, 
that  the  elder  couple  had  no  money  in  their  pockets,  as  had  been 
proved  by  their  adventure  at  the  entrance  of  the  Gardens  ;  howbeit. 
Pen  paid  a  couple  of  shillings  for  himself  and  his  partner,  and  with 
her  hanging  close  on  his  arm,  scaled  the  staircase  which  leads  to  the 
firework  gallery.  The  Captain  and  mamma  might  have  followed 
them  if  they  liked,  but  Arthur  and  Fanny  were  too  busy  to  look 
back.  People  were  pushing  and  squeezing  there  beside  and  behind 
them.  One  eager  individual  rushed  by  Fanny,  and  elbowed  her  so, 
that  she  fell  back  with  a  little  cry,  upon  which,  of  course,  Arthur 
caught  her  adroitly  in  his  arms,  and,  just  for  protection,  kept  her  so 
defended,  until  they  mounted  the  stair,  and  took  their  places. 

Poor  Foker  sate  alone  on  one  of  the  highest  benches,  his  face 
illuminated  by  the  fireworks,  or  in  their  absence  by  the  moon.  Arthur 
sav/  him,  and  laughed,  but  did  not  occupy  himself  about  his  friend 
much.  He  was  engaged  with  Fanny.  How  she  wondered!  how 
happy  she  was !  how  she  cried  oh,  oh,  oh,  as  the  rockets  soared  into 
the  air,  and  showered  down  in  azure,  and  emerald,  and  vermilion.  As 
tliese  wonders  blazed  and  disappeared  before  her,  the  little  girl  thrilled 
and  trembled  with  delight  at  Arthurs  side— her  hand  was  under  his 
arm  still,  he  felt  it  pressing  him  as  she  looked  up  delighted. 

'■  How  beautiful  thev  are,  sir ! "  she  cried. 


PENDENNIS.  457 

"  Don't  call  me  sir,  Fanny,"  Arthur  said. 

A  quick  blush  rushed  up  into  the  girl's  face.  "  What  shall  I  call 
you?"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  sweet  and  tremulous.  "What  would 
you  wish  me  to  say,  sir  ?" 

"  Again,  Fanny !  Well,  I  forgot ;  it  is  best  so,  my  dear,"  Pendennis 
said,  ver)'  kindly  and  gently.     "  I  may  call  you  Fanny  ? " 

'-'  O  yes ! "  she  said,  and  the  little  hand  pressed  his  arm  once  more 
very  eagerly,  and  the  girl  clung  to  him  so  that  he  could  feel  her  heart 
beating  on  his  shoulder. 

'•  I  may  call  you  Fanny,  because  you  are  a  young  girl,  and  a  good 
girl,  Fanny,  and  I  am  an  old  gentleman.  But  you  mustn't  call  me 
anything  but  sir,  or  Mr.  Pendennis,  if  you  like;  for  we  live  in  very- 
different  stations,  Fanny;  and  don't  think  I  speak  unkindly;  and — 
and  why  do  you  take  your  hand  away,  Fanny  ?  Are  you  afraid  of  me  ? 
Do  you  think  I  would  hurt  you  ?  Not  for  all  the  world,  my  dear  little 
girl.  And — and  look  how  beautiful  the  moon  and  stars  are,  and  how 
calmly  they  shine  when  the  rockets  have  gone  out,  and  the  noisy 
wheels  have  done  hissing  and  blazing.  When  I  came  here  to-night  I 
did  not  think  I  should  have  had  such  a  pretty  little  companion  to  sit 
by  my  side,  and  see  these  fine  fireworks.  You  must  know  I  live  by 
myself,  and  work  very  hard.  I  write  in  books  and  newspapers, 
Fanny;  and  I  was  quite  tiied  out,  and  expected  to  sit  alone  all  night; 
and— don't  cry,  my  dear,  dear  little  girl."  Here  Pen  broke  out, 
rapidly  putting  an  end  to  the  calm  oration  which  he  had  begun  to 
deliver;  for  the  sight  of  a  woman's  tears  always  put  his  nerves  in  a 
quiver,  and  he  began  forthwith  to  coax  her  and  soothe  her,  and  to 
utter  a  hundred-and-twenty  little  ejaculations  of  pity  and  sympathy, 
which  need  not  be  repeated  here,  because  they  would  be  absurd  in 
print.  So  would  a  mother's  talk  to  a  child  be  absurd  in  print ;  so 
would  a  lover's  to  his  bride.  That  sweet  artless  poetry  bears  no 
translation;  and  is  too  subtle  for  grammarians'  clumsy  definitions. 
You  have  but  the  same  four  letters  to  describe  the  salute  which  you 
perform  on  your  grandmother's  forehead,  and  that  which  you  bestow 
on  the  sacred  cheek  of  your  mistress ;  but  the  same  four  letters,  and 
not  one  of  them  a  labial.  Do  we  mean  to  hint  that  Mr.  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis made  any  use  of  the  monosyllable  in  question  ?  Not  so.  In 
the  first  place,  it  was  dark:  the  fireworks  were  over,  and  nobody  could 
see  him :  secondly,  he  was  not  a  man  to  have  this  kind  of  secret,  and 
tell  it ;  thirdly,  and  lastly,  let  the  honest  fellow  who  has  kissed  a  pretty- 
girl,  say  what  would  have  been  his  own  conduct  in  such  a  delicate 
juncture  ? 

Well,  the  truth  is,  that  however  you  may  suspect  him,  and  what- 
ever you  would  have  done  under  the  circumstances,  or  Mr.  Pen  would 
have  liked  to  do,  he  behaved  honestly,  and  like  a  man.     "  I  will  not 


458  PENDENNIS. 

play  with  this  httle  girl's  heart,''  he  said  within  himself,  "  and  forget 
my  own  or  her  honour.  She  seems  to  have  a  great  deal  of  dangerous 
and  rather  contagious  sensibility,  and  I  am  very  glad  the  fireworks  are 
over,  and  that  I  can  take  her  back  to  her  mother.  Come  along,  Fanny ; 
mind  the  steps,  and  lean  on  me.  Don't  stumble,  you  heedless  little 
thing ;  this  is  the  way,  and  there  is  your  mamma  at  the  door." 

And  there,  indeed,  Mrs.  Bolton  was,  unquiet  in  spirit,  and  grasping 
her  umbrella.  She  seized  Fanny  with  maternal  fierceness  and  eager- 
ness, and  uttered  some  rapid  abuse  to  the  girl  in  an  under  tone.  The 
expression  in  Captain  Costigan's  eye — standing  behind  the  matron  and 
winking  at  Pendennis  from  under  his  hat — was,  I  am  bound  to  say. 
indefinably  humorous. 

It  was  so  much  so,  that  Pen  could  not  refrain  from  bursting  into 
a  laugh.  "You  should  have  taken  my  arm,  Mrs.  Bolton,"  he  said, 
offering  it.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  bring  Miss  Fanny  back  quite  safe  to 
you.  We  thought  you  would  have  followed  us  up  into  the  gallery. 
We  enjoyed  the  fireworks,  didn't  we  1 " 

"  O  yes ! "  said  Miss  Fanny,  with  rather  a  demure  look. 

"  And  the  bouquet  was  magnificent,"  said  Pen.  "  And  it  is  ten 
hours  since  I  had  anything  to  eat,  ladies ;  and  I  wish  you  would  permit 
me  to  invite  you  to  supper." 

"  Dad,"  said  Costigan,  "  I'd  loike  a  snack  tu ;  only  I  forgawt  me 
purse,  or  I  should  have  invoited  these  leedies  to  a  collection," 

Mrs.  Bolton  with  considerable  asperity  said.  She  'ad  an  'eadache, 
and  would  much  rather  go  'ome. 

"  A  lobster  salad  is  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  a  headache,"  Pen 
said  gallantly,  "  and  a  glass  of  wine  I'm  sure  will  do  you  good."  Come, 
Mrs.  Bolton,  be  kind  to  me  and  oblige  me.  I  shan't  have  the  heart 
to  sup  without  you,  and  upon  my  word  I  have  had  no  dinner.  Give 
me  your  arm :  give  me  the  umbrella.  Costigan,  I'm  sure  you'll  take 
care  of  Miss  Fanny ;  and  I  shall  think  ?klrs.  Bolton  angry  with  me, 
unless  she  will  favour  me  with  her  society.  And  we  will  all  sup  quietly, 
and  go  back  in  a  cab  together." 

The  cab,  the  lobster  salad,  the  frank  and  good-humoured  look  of 
Pendennis,  as  he  smilingly  invited  the  worthy  matron,  subdued  her 
suspicions  and  her  anger.  Since  he  would  be  so  obliging,  she 
thought  she  could  take  a  little  bit  of  lobster,  and  so  they  all  marched 
away  to  a  box;  and  Costigan  called  for  a.  waither  with  such  a  loud 
and  belligerent  voice,  as  caused  one  of  those  officials  instantly  to  run 
to  him. 

The  carte  was  examined  on  the  wall,  and  Fanny  was  asked  to 
choose  her  favourite  dish ;  upon  which  the  young  creature  said  she 
was  fond  of  lobster,  too,  but  also  owned  to  a  partiality  for  raspbern,'- 
tart.     This  delicacy  was  provided  by  Pen,  and  a  bottle  of  the  most 


PENDENNIS.  459 

frisky  champagne  was  moreover  ordered  for  the  dehght  of  the  ladies. 
Little  Fanny  drank  this ; — what  other  sweet  intoxication  had  she  not 
drunk  in  the  course  of  the  night  ? 

When  the  supper,  which  was  very  brisk  and  gay,  was  over,  and 
Captain  Costigan  and  Mrs.  Bolton  had  partaken  of  some  of  the  rack 
punch  that  is  so  fragrant  at  Vauxhall,  the  bill  was  called  and  dis- 
charged by  Pen  with  great  generosity,—"  loike  a  foin  young  English 
gentleman  of  th'  olden  toime,  be  Jove,"  Costigan  enthusiastically 
remarked.  And  as,  when  they  went  out  of  the  box,  he  stepped  forward 
and  gave  Mrs.  Bolton  his  arm,  Fanny  fell  to  Pen's  lot,  and  the  young 
people  walked  away  in  high  good-humour  together,  in  the  wake  of 
their  seniors. 

The  champagne  and  the  rack  punch,  though  taken  in  moderation 
by  all  persons,  except  perhaps  poor  Cos,  who  lurched  ever  so  little  in 
his  gait,  had  set  them  in  high  spirits  and  good  humour,  so  that  Fanny 
began  to  skip  and  move  her  brisk  little  feet  in  time  to  the  band,  which 
was  playing  waltzes  and  galops  for  the  dancers.  As  they  came  up  to 
the  dancing,  the  music  and  Fanny's  feet  seemed  to  go  quicker  together 
— she  seemed  to  spring,  as  if  naturally,  from  the  ground,  and  as  if  she 
required  repression  to  keep  her  there. 

"  Shouldn't  you  like  a  turn  ?  "  said  the  Prince  of  Fairoaks.  "'  What 
fun  it  would  be  !  Mrs.  Bolton,  ma'am,  do  let  me  take  her  once  round." 
Upon  which  Mr.  Costigan  said,  "  Off  wid  you ! "  and  Mrs.  Bolton  not 
refusing  (indeed,  she  was  an  old  war-horse,  and  would  have  liked,  at 
the  trumpet's  sound,  to  have  entered  the  arena  herself),  Fann/s  shawl 
was  off  her  back  in  a  minute,  and  she  and  Arthur  were  whirling  round 
in  a  waltz  in  the  midst  of  a  great  deal  of  queer,  but  exceedingly  joyful 
company. 

Pen  had  no  mishap  this  time  with  little  Fanny,  as  he  had  with  Miss 
Blanche  in  old  days, — at  least,  there  was  no  mishap  of  his  making. 
The  pair  danced  away  with  great  agility  and  contentment, — first  a 
waltz,  then  a  galop,  then  a  waltz  again,  until,  in  the  second  waltz,  they 
were  bumped  by  another  couple  who  had  joined  the  Terpsichorean 
choir.  This  was  Mr.  Huxter  and  his  pink  satin  young  friend,  of  whom 
we  have  already  had  a  glimpse. 

Mr.  Huxter  very  probably  had  been  also  partaking  of  supper,  for 
he  was  even  more  excited  now  than  at  the  time  when  he  had  pre- 
viously claimed  Pen's  acquaintance ;  and,  having  run  against  Arthur 
and  his  partner,  and  nearly  knocked  them  down,  this  amiable  gentle- 
man of  course  began  to  abuse  the  people  whom  he  had  injured,  and 
broke  out  into  a  volley  of  slang  against  the  unoffending  couple. 

"  Now  then,  stoopid !  Don't  keep  the  ground  if  you  can't  dance, 
old  Slow  Coach ! "  the  young  surgeon  roared  out  (using,  at  the  same 
time,  other  expressions  far  more  emphatic),  and  was  joined  in  his 


46o  PENDENNIS. 

abuse  by  the  shrill  language  and  laughter  of  his  partner ; — to  the  inter- 
ruption of  the  ball,  the  terror  of  poor  little  Fanny,  and  the  immense 
indignation  of  Pen. 

Arthur  was  furious ;  and  not  so  angrj-  at  the  quarrel  as  at  the 
shame  attending  it.  A  battle  with  a  fellow  like  that !  A  row  in  a 
public  garden,  and  with  a  porter's  daughter  on  his  arm !  What  a 
position  for  Arthur  Pendennis !  He  drew  poor  little  Fanny  hastily 
away  from  the  dancers  to  her  mother,  and  wished  that  lady,  and  Cos- 
tigan,  and  poor  Fanny  underground,  rather  than  there,  in  his  com- 
panionship, and  under  his  protection. 

When  Huxter  commenced  his  attack,  that  free-spoken  young 
gentleman  had  not  seen  who  was  his  opponent ;  and  directly  he  was 
aware  that  it  was  Arthur  whom  he  had  insulted,  he  began  to  make 
apologies.  "  Hold  your  stoopid  tongue,  Marj-,"  he  said  to  his  partner. 
"  It's  an  old  friend  and  crony  at  home.  I  beg  pardon,  Pendennis ; 
wasn't  aware  it  was  you,  old  boy."  Mr.  Huxter  had  been  one  of  the 
boys  of  the  Clavering  school,  who  had  been  present  at  a  combat  which 
has  been  mentioned  in  the  early  part  of  this  stor)-,  when  young  Pen 
knocked  down  the  biggest  champion  of  the  academy,  and  Huxter 
knew  that  it  was  dangerous  to  quarrel  with  Arthur. 

His  apologies  were  as  odious  to  the  other  as  his  abuse  had  been. 
Pen  stopped  his  tipsy  remonstrances  by  telling  him  to  hold  his  tongue, 
and  desiring  him  not  to  use  his  (Pendennis's)  name  in  that  place  or 
any  other ;  and  he  walked  out  of  the  gardens  with  a  titter  behind  him 
from  the  crowd,  everj-  one  of  whom  he  would  have  liked  to  massacre 
for  having  been  witness  to  the  degrading  broil.  He  walked  out  of  the 
gardens,  quite  forgetting  poor  little  Fanny,  who  came  trembling  behind 
him  with  her  mother  and  the  stately  Costigan. 

He  was  brought  back  to  himself  by  a  word  from  the  Captain, 
who  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  just  as  they  were  passing  the  inner 
gate. 

"  There's  no  ray-admittance  except  ye  pay  again,"  the  Captain 
said.     "  Hadn't  I  better  go  back,  and  take  the  fellow  your  message  ?" 

Pen  burst  out  laughing.  "  Take  him  a  message !  Do  you  think  I 
would  fight  with  such  a  fellow  as  that  ? "  he  asked. 

"  No,  no !  Don't,  don't ! "  cried  out  little  Fanny.  '•  How  can  you 
be  so  wicked,  Captain  Costigan  ? "  The  Captain  muttered  something 
about  honour,  and  winked  knowingly  at  Pen,  but  Arthur  said  gallantly, 
"  No,  Fanny,  don't  be  frightened.  It  w^as  my  fault  to  have  danced  in 
such  a  place.  I  beg  your  pardon,  to  have  asked  you  to  dance  there." 
And  he  gave  her  his  arm  once  more,  and  called  a  cab,  and  put  his 
three  friends  into  it. 

He  was  about  to  pay  the  driver,  and  to  take  another  carriage  for 
himself,  when   little    Fanny,  still  alarmed,  put   her   little  hand  out, 


PENDENNIS.  461 

and  caught  him  by  the  coat,  and  implored  him  and  besought  him  to 
come  in. 

"  Will  nothing  satisfy  you,"  said  Pen,  in  great  good-humour,  "  that 
I  am  not  going  back  to  fight  him  ?  Well,  I  will  come  home  with  you. 
Drive  to  Shepherd's  Inn,  Cab."  The  cab  drove  to  its  destination. 
Arthur  was  immensely  pleased  by  the  girl's  solicitude  about  him :  her 
tender  terrors  quite  made  him  forget  his  previous  annoyance. 

Pen  put  the  ladies  into  their  lodge,  having  shaken  hands  kindly 
with  both  of  them ;  and  the  Captain  again  whispered  to  him  that  he 
would  see  'um  in  the  morning  if  he  was  inclined,  and  take  his  message 
to  that  "  scounthrel."  But  the  Captain  was  in  his  usual  condition 
when  he  made  the  proposal ;  and  Pen  was  perfectly  sure  that  neither 
he  nor  Mr.  Huxter,  when  they  awoke,  would  remember  anything  about 
the  dispute. 


462  PENDENNTS. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

A  VISIT  OF   POLITENESS. 

COSTIGAN  never  roused  Pen  from  his  slumbers;  there  was  no 
hostile  message  from  Mr.  Huxter  to  disturb  him ;  and  when  Pen 
woke,  it  was  with  a  brisker  and  more  lively  feeling  than  ordinarily 
attends  that  moment  in  the  day  of  the  tired  and  blase  London  man. 
A  city  man  wakes  up  to  care  and  consols,  and  the  thoughts  of 'Change 
and  the  counting-house  take  possession  of  him  as  soon  as  sleep  flies 
from  under  his  night-cap ;  a  la\vyer  rouses  himself  with  the  early 
morning  to  think  of  the  case  that  wiU  take  him  all  his  day  to  work 
upon,  and  the  inevitable  attorney  to  whom  he  has  promised  his  papers 
ere  night.  Which  of  us  has  not  his  anxiety  instantly  present  when  his 
eyes  are  opened,  to  it  and  to  the  world,  after  his  night's  sleep  ?  Kind 
strengthener  that  enables  us  to  face  the  day's  task  with  renewed 
heart!  Beautiful  ordinance  of  Providence  that  creates  rest  as  it 
awards  labour! 

Mr.  Pendennis's  labour,  or  rather  his  disposition,  was  of  that  sort 
that  his  daily  occupations  did  not  much  interest  him,  for  the  excite- 
ment of  literary  composition  pretty  soon  subsides  with  the  hired 
labourer,  and  the  delight  of  seeing  one's  self  in  print  only  extends  to 
the  first  two  or  three  appearances  in  the  magazine  or  newspaper 
page.  Pegasus  put  into  harness,  and  obliged  to  run  a  stage  every  day, 
is  as  prosaic  as  any  other  hack,  and  won't  work  without  his  whip  or 
his  feed  of  corn.  So,  indeed,  Mr.  Arthur  performed  his  work  at  the 
"  Pall  jNIall  Gazette "  (and  since  his  success  as  a  novelist  with  an 
increased  salar}'),  but  without  the  least  enthusiasm,  doing  his  best  or 
pretty  nearly,  and  sometimes  writing  ill  and  sometimes  well.  He  was 
a  literary'  hack,  naturally  fast  in  pace,  and  brilliant  in  action. 

Neither  did  society,  or  that  portion  which  he  saw,  excite  or  amuse 
him  overmuch.  In  spite  of  his  brag  and  boast  to  the  contrary-,  he  was 
too  young  as  yet  for  women's  society,  which  probably  can  only  be  had 
in  perfection  when  a  man  has  ceased  to  think  about  his  own  person, 
and  has  given  up  all  designs  of  being  a  conqueror  of  ladies ;  he  was 
too  young  to  be  admitted  as  an  equal  amongst  men  who  had  made 
their  mark  in  the  world,  and  of  whose  conversation  he  could  scarcely 
as  yet  expect  to  be  more  than  a  listener.     And  he  was  too  old  for  the 


PENDENNIS.  463 

men  of  pleasure  of  his  own  age ;  too  much  a  man  of  pleasure  for  the 
men  of  business ;  destined  in  a  word  to  be  a  good  deal  alone.  Fate 
awards  this  lot  of  solitude  to  many  a  man ;  and  many  like  it  from 
taste,  as  many  without  difficulty  bear  it.  Pendennis,  in  reality,  suffered 
it  very  equanimously ;  but  in  words,  and  according  to  his  wont,  grum- 
bled over  it  not  a  little. 

"  What  a  nice  little  artless  creature  that  was,"  Mr.  Pen  thought  at 
the  very  instant  of  waking  after  the  Vauxhall  affair ;  "  what  a  pretty 
natural  manner  she  has ;  how  much  pleasanter  than  the  minauderies 
of  the  young  ladies  in  the  ball-rooms  "  (and  here  he  recalled  to  him- 
self some  instances,  of  what  he  could  not  help  seeing,  was  the  artful 
simplicity  of  Miss  Blanche,  and  some  of  the  stupid  graces  of  other 
young  ladies  in  the  polite  world) ;  "  who  could  have  thought  that  such 
a  pretty  rose  could  grow  in  a  porter's  lodge,  or  bloom  in  that  dismal 
old  flower-pot  of  a  Shepherd's  Inn  ?  So  she  learns  to  sing  from  old 
Bows  .''  If  her  singing  voice  is  as  sweet  as  her  speaking  voice,  it  must 
be  pretty.  I  like  those  low  voilees  voices.  '  What  would  you  like  me 
to  call  you  ? '  indeed.  Poor  little  Fanny  !  It  went  to  my  heart  to 
adopt  the  grand  air  with  her,  and  tell  her  to  call  me  '  sir,'  But  we'll 
have  no  nonsense  of  that  sort — no  Faust  and  Margaret  business  for 
me.  That  old  Bows !  So  he  teaches  her  to  sing,  does  he  1  He's  a 
dear  old  fellow,  old  Bows  :  a  gentleman  in  those  old  clothes  :  a  philo- 
sopher, and  with  a  kind  heart,  too.  How  good  he  was  to  me  in  the 
Fotheringay  business.  He,  too,  has  had  his  griefs  and  his  sorrows.  I 
must  cultivate  old  Bows.  A  man  ought  to  see  people  of  all  sorts.  I  am 
getting  tired  of  genteel  society.  Besides,  there's  nobody  in  town.  Yes, 
I'll  go  and  see  Bows,  and  Costigan  too  :  what  a  rich  character !  begad, 
I'll  study  him,  and  put  him  into  a  book."  In  this  way  our  young 
anthropologist  talked  with  himself;  and  as  Saturday  was  the  holiday 
of  the  week,  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette "  making  its  appearance  upon 
that  day,  and  the  contributors  to  that  journal  having  no  further  calls 
upon  their  brains  or  ink-bottles,  Mr.  Pendennis  determined  he  would 
take  advantage  of  his  leisure,  and  pay  a  visit  to  Shepherd's  Inn — of 
course  to  see  old  Bows. 

The  truth  is,  that  if  Arthur  had  been  the  most  determined  re/// and 
artful  Lovelace  who  ever  set  about  deceiving  a  young  girl,  he  could 
hardly  have  adopted  better  means  for  fascinating  and  overcoming 
poor  little  Fanny  Bolton  than  those  which  he  had  employed  on  the 
previous  night.  His  dandified  protecting  air,  his  conceit,  generosity, 
and  good  humour,  the  very  sense  of  good  and  honesty  which  had 
enabled  him  to  check  the  tremulous  advances  of  the  young  creature, 
and  not  to  take  advantage  of  that  little  fluttering  sensibility, — his 
faults  and  his  virtues  at  once  contributed  to  make  her  admire  him; 
and  if  we  could  peep  into    Fanny's   bed    (which    she   shared   in   a 


464  PENDENNIS. 

cupboard,  along  with  those  two  little  sisters  to  whom  we  have  seen 
Mr.  Costigan  administering  gingerbread  and  apples),  we  should  find 
the  poor  little  maid  tossing  upon  her  mattress,  to  the  great  disturbance 
of  its  other  two  occupants,  and  thinking  over  all  the  delights  and  events 
of  that  delightful,  eventful  night,  and  all  the  words,  looks,  and  actions 
of  Arthur,  its  splendid  hero.  Many  novels  had  Fanny  read,  in  secret 
and  at  home,  in  three  volumes  and  in  numbers.  Periodi<;al  literature 
had  not  reached  the  height  which  it  has  attained  subsequently,  and 
the  girls  of  Fanny's  generation  were  not  enabled  to  purchase  sixteen 
pages  of  excitement  for  a  penny,  rich  with  histories  of  crime,  murder, 
oppressed  virtue,  and  the  heartless  seductions  of  the  aristocracy :  but 
she  had  had  the  benefit  of  the  circulating  library  which,  in  conjunction 
with  her  school  and  a  small  brandy-ball  and  millinery  business.  Miss 
Minifer  kept, — and  Arthur  appeared  to  her  at  once  as  the  type  and 
realisation  of  all  the  heroes  of  all  those  darling  greasy  volumes  which 
the  young  girl  had  devoured.  Mr.  Pen,  we  have  seen,  was  rather  a 
dandy  about  shirts  and  haberdashery  in  general.  Fanny  had  looked 
with  delight  at  the  fineness  of  his  linen,  at  the  brilliancy  of  his  shirt- 
studs,  at  his  elegant  cambric  pocket-handkerchief  and  white  gloves, 
and  at  the  jetty  brightness  of  his  charming  boots.  The  Prince  had 
appeared  and  subjugated  the  poor  little  handmaid.  His  image  traversed 
constantly  her  restless  slumbers;  the  tone  of  his  voice,  the  blue  light 
of  his  eyes,  the  generous  look,  half  love  half  pity — the  manly  pro- 
tecting smile,  the  frank,  winning  laughter, — all  these  were  repeated  in 
the  girl's  fond  memory.  She  felt  still  his  arm  encircling  her,  and  saw 
him  smiling  so  grand  as  he  filled  up  that  delicious  glass  of  champagne. 
And  then  she  thought  of  the  girls,  her  friends,  Avho  used  to  sneer  at 
her — of  Emma  Baker,  who  was  so  proud,  forsooth,  because  she  was 
engaged  to  a  cheesemonger,  in  a  white  apron,  near  Clare  Market ; 
and  of  Betsy  Rodgers,  who  made  such  a  to-do  about  her  young  man — 
an  attorney's  clerk,  indeed,  that  went  about  with  a  bag. 

So  that,  at  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon — the  Bolton  family 
having  concluded  their  dinner  (and  Mr.  B.,  who  besides  his  place  of 
porter  of  the  Inn,  was  in  the  employ  of  Messrs.  Tressler,  the  eminent 
undertakers  of  the  Strand,  being  absent  in  the  country  with  the 
Countess  of  Estrich's  hearse),  when  a  gentleman  in  a  white  hat  and 
white  trowsers  made  his  appearance  under  the  Inn  archway,  and 
stopped  at  the  porter's  wicket,  Fanny  was  not  in  the  least  surprised, 
only  delighted,  only  happy,  and  blushing  beyond  all  measure.  She 
knew  it  could  be  no  other  than  He.  She  knew  he'd  come.  There 
he  was;  there  was  his  Royal  Highness  beaming  upon  her  from  the 
gate.  She  called  to  her  mother,  who  was  busy  in  the  upper  apart- 
ment, "  Mamma,  mamma,"  and  ran  to  the  wicket  at  once,  and  opened 
it,  pushing  aside  the  other  children.     How  she  blushed  as  she  gave 


PENDENNIS.  465 

her  hand  to  him !  How  affably  he  took  off  his  white  hat  as  he  came 
in ;  the  children  staring  at  him !  He  asked  Mrs.  Bolton  if  she  had 
slept  well,  after  the  fatigues  of  the  night,  and  hoped  she  had  no  head- 
ache ;  and  he  said  that  as  he  was  going  that  way,  he  could  not  pass 
the  door  without  asking  news  of  his  little  partner. 

Mrs.  Bolton  was  perhaps  rather  shy  and  suspicious  about  these 
advances ;  but  Mr.  Pen's  good  humour  was  inexhaustible ;  he  could 
not  see  that  he  was  unwelcome.  He  looked  about  the  premises  for  a 
seat,  and  none  being  disengaged— for  a  dish-cover  was  on  one,  a  work- 
box  on  the  other,  and  so  forth — he  took  one  of  the  children's  chairs, 
and  perched  himself  upon  that  uncomfortable  eminence.  At  this,  the 
children  began  laughing,  the  child  Fanny  louder  than  all — at  least, 
she  was  more  amused  than  any  of  them,  and  amazed  at  his  Royal 
Kighness's  condescension.  He  to  sit  down  in  that  chair — that  little 
child's  chair! — Many  and  many  a  time  after,  she  regarded  it :  haven't 
we  almost  all  such  furniture  in  our  rooms,  that  our  fancy  peoples  with 
dear  figures,  that  our  memory  fills  with  sweet  smiling  faces,  which  may 
never  look  on  us  more  .'' 

So  Pen  sate  down  and  talked  away  with  great  volubility  to 
Mrs.  Bolton.  He  asked  about  the  undertaking  business,  and  how 
many  mutes  went  down  with  Lady  Estrich's  remains  ;  and  about 
the  Inn  and  who  lived  there.  He  seemed  very  much  interested 
about  Mr.  Campion's  cab  and  horse,  and  had  met  that  gentleman 
in  society.  He  thought  he  should  like  shares  in  the  Polwheedle  and 
Tredyddlurn  ;  did  Mrs.  Bolton  do  for  those  chambers  ?  Were  there 
any  chambers  to  let  in  the  Inn  ?  It  was  better  than  the  Temple  : 
he  should  like  to  come  to  live  in  Shepherd's  Inn.  As  for  Captain 
Strong,  and  —  Colonel  Altamont — was  his  name  ?  he  was  deeply 
interested  in  them  too.  The  Captain  was  an  old  friend  at  home. 
He  had  dined  with  him  at  chambers  here,  before  the  Colonel  came 
to  live  with  him.  What  sort  of  man  was  the  Colonel  ?  Wasn't 
he  a  stout  man,  with  a  large  quantity  of  jewellery,  and  a  wig  and 
large  black  whiskers — very  black  (here  Pen  was  immensely  waggish, 
and  caused  hysteric  giggles  of  delight  from  the  ladies) — very 
black  indeed  ;  in  fact,  blue  black  ;   that  is  to  say,  a  rich  greenish 

purple .''     That  was  the  man  ;  he  had  met  him   too  at  Sir   Fr 

in  society. 

"  Oh,  we  know,"  said  the  ladies,  "  Sir  F is  Sir  F.  Clavering  : 

he's  often  here  :  two  or  three  times  a  week  with  the  Captain.  My 
little  boy  has  been  out  for  bill-stamps  for  him.  Oh  Lor' !  I  beg 
pardon,  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  no  secrets,"  Mrs.  Bolton  blurted 
out,  being  talked  perfectly  into  good-nature  by  this  time.  "  But  wc 
know  you  to  be  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Pendennis,  for  I'm  sure  you  have 
shown  that  you  can  beayve  as  such.     Hasn't  Mr.  Pendennis,  Fanny  ? " 


466  PENDENNIS. 

Fanny  loved  her  mother  for  that  speech.  She  cast  up  her  dark 
eyes  to  the  low  ceiling  and  said,  "  Oh,  that  he  has,  I'm  sure,  ma,"' 
with  a  voice  full  of  feeling. 

Pen  was  rather  curious  about  the  bill-stamps,  and  concerning  the 
transactions  in  Strong's  chambers.  And  he  asked,  when  Altamont 
came  and  joined  the  Chevalier,  whether  he  too  sent  out  for  bill- 
stamps,  who  he  was,  whether  he  saw  many  people,  and  so  forth. 
These  questions,  put  with  considerable  adroitness  by  Pen,  who  was 
interested  about  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  doings  from  private  motives 
of  his  own,  were  artlessly  answered  by  Mrs,  Bolton,  and  to  the 
utmost  of  her  knowledge  and  ability,  v/hich,  in  truth,  were  not 
very  great. 

These  questions  answered,  and  Pen  being  at  a  loss  for  more, 
luckily  recollected  his  privilege  as  a  member  of  the  Press,  and  asked 
the  ladies  whether  they  would  like  any  orders  for  the  play  ?  The 
play  was  their  delight,  as  it  is  almost  always  the  delight  of  every 
theatrical  person.  When  Bolton  was  away  professionally  (it  appeared 
that  of  late  the  porter  of  Shepherd's  Inn  had  taken  a  serious 
turn,  drank  a  good  deal,  and  otherwise  made  himself  unpleasant 
to  the  ladies  of  his  family),  they  would  like  of  all  things  to  slip  out 
and  go  to  the  theatre — little  Barney,  their  son,  keeping  the  lodge  ; 
and  Mr.  Pendennis's  most  generous  and  most  genteel  compliment 
of  orders  was  received  with  boundless  gratitude  by  both  mother  and 
daughter. 

Fanny  clapped  her  hands  with  pleasure  :  her  face  beamed  with  it. 
She  looked  and  nodded,  and  laughed  at  her  mamma,  who  nodded 
and  laughed  in  her  turn.  Mrs.  Bolton  was  not  superannuated  for 
pleasure  yet,  or  by  any  means  too  old  for  admiration,  she  thought. 
And  very  likely  Mr.  Pendennis,  in  his  conversation  with  her,  had 
insinuated  some  compliments,  or  shaped  his  talk  so  as  to  please  her. 
At  first,  against  Pen,  and  suspicious  of  him,  she  was  his  partisan  now, 
and  almost  as  enthusiastic  about  him  as  her  daughter.  When  two 
women  get  together  to  like  a  man,  they  help  each  other  on — each 
pushes  the  other  forward — and  the  second,  out  of  sheer  sympathy, 
becomes  as  eager  as  the  principal  :  at  least,  so  it  is  said  by  philoso- 
phers who  have  examined  this  science. 

So  the  offer  of  the  play-tickets,  and  other  pleasantries,  put  all 
parties  into  perfect  good-humour,  except  for  one  brief  moment,  when 
one  of  the  younger  children,  hearing  the  name  of  "Astley's"  pro- 
nounced, came  forward  and  stated  that  she  should  like  very  much 
to  go  too  ;  on  which  Fanny  said.  "  Don't  bother,"  rather  sharply  ; 
and  mamma  said,  "  Get-long,  Betsy-Jane,  do  now,  and  play  in  the 
court :  "  so  that  the  two  little  ones,  namely,  Betsy-Jane  and  Ameliar- 
Ann,   went   away   in   their   little   innocent  pinafores,   and   disported 


I 


PENDENNIS.  467 

in  the  court-yard  on  the  smooth  gravel,  round  about  the  statue  of 
Shepherd  the  Great. 

And  here,  as  they  were  playing,  they  very  possibly  communicated 
with  an  old  friend  of  theirs  and  dweller  in  the  Inn  ;  for  while  Pen 
was  making  himself  agreeable  to  the  ladies  at  the  lodge,  who  were 
laughing  delighted  at  his  sallies,  an  old  gentleman  passed  under  the 
archway  from  the  Inn-square,  and  came  and  looked  in  at  the  door  of 
the  lodge. 

He  made  a  very  blank  and  rueful  face  when  he  saw  Mr.  Arthur 
seated  upon  a  table,  like  Macheath  in  the  play,  in  easy  discourse  with 
Mrs.  Bolton  and  her  daughter. 

"  What !  Mr.  Bows  ?  How  d'you  do.  Bows  ? "  cried  out  Pen,  in  a 
cheery,  loud  voice.  "  I  was  coming  to  see  you,  and  was  asking  your 
address  of  these  ladies." 

"  You  were  coming  to  see  tne,  were  you,  sir  ? "  Bows  said,  and  came 
in  with  a  sad  face,  and  shook  hands  with  Arthur.  "  Plague  on  that 
old  man ! "  somebody  thought  in  the  room :  and  so,  perhaps,  some  one 
else  besides  her. 


468  PENDEXNJS. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

IN     SHEPHERD'S     INN. 

OUR  friend  Pen  said,  "  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Bows?"  in  a  loud  cheer>- 
voice  on  perceiving  that  gentleman,  and  saluted  him  in  a  dash- 
ing off-hand  manner,  yet  you  could  have  seen  a  blush  upon  Arthur's 
face  (answered  by  Fanny,  whose  cheek  straightway  threw  out  a  similar 
fluttering  red  signal)  ;  and  after  Bows  and  Arthur  had  shaken  hands, 
and  the  former  had  ironically  accepted  the  other's  assertion  that  he 
was  about  to  pay  iNIr.  Costigan's  chambers  a  visit,  there  was  a  gloomy 
and  rather  guilty  silence  in  the  company,  which  Pen  presently  tried 
to  dispel  by  making  a  great  rattling  and  noise.  The  silence  of  course 
departed  at  Mr.  Arthur's  noise,  but  the  gloom  remained  and  deepened, 
as  the  darkness  does  in  a  vault  if  you  light  up  a  single  taper  in  it. 
Pendennis  tried  to  describe,  in  a  jocular  manner,  the  transactions  of 
the  night  previous,  and  attempted  to  give  an  imitation  of  Costigan 
vainly  expostulating  with  the  check-taker  at  Vauxhall.  It  was  not  a 
good  imitation.  What  stranger  can  imitate  that  perfection .''  Nobody 
laughed.  Mrs.  Bolton  did  not  in  the  least  understand  what  part 
Mr.  Pendennis  was  performing,  and  whether  it  was  the  check-taker 
or  the  Captain  he  was  taking  off.  Fanny  wore  an  alarmed  face,  and 
tried  a  timid  giggle ;  old  Mr.  Bows  looked  as  glum  as  when  he  fiddled 
in  the  orchestra,  or  played  a  difficult  piece  upon  the  old  piano  at  the 
Back-Kitchen.  Pen  felt  that  his  story  was  a  failure ;  his  voice  sank 
and  dwindled  away  dismally  at  the  end  of  it — flickered,  and  went  out ; 
and  it  was  all  dark  again.  You  could  hear  the  ticket-porter,  who  lolls 
about  Shepherd's  Inn,  as  he  passed  on  the  flags  under  the  archway: 
the  clink  of  his  boot-heels  was  noted  by  everybody. 

"  You  were  coming  to  see  me,  sir,"  Mr.  Bows  said.  "  Won't  you 
have  the  kindness  to  walk  up  to  my  chambers  with  me  ?  You  do  them 
a  great  honour,  I  am  sure.     They  are  rather  high  up ;  but — " 

"Oh!  I  live  in  a  garret  myself,  and  Shepherd's  Inn  is  twice  as 
cheerful  as  Lamb  Court,"  Mr.  Pendennis  broke  in. 

"  I  knew  that  you  had  third-floor  apartments,"  Mr.  Bows  said ; 
"  and  was  going  to  say — you  will  please  not  take  my  remark  as  dis- 
courteous— that  the  air  up  three  pair  of  stairs  is  wholesomer  for 
gentlemen  than  the  air  of  a  porter's  lodge." 


PENDENNIS.  469 

"  Sir ! "  said  Pen,  whose  candle  flamed  up  again  in  his  wrath,  and 
who  was  disposed  to  be  as  quarrelsome  as  men  are  when  they  arc  in 
the  wrong.     "  Will  you  perm\t  me  to  choose  my  society  without — " 

"  You  were  so  polite  as  to  say  that  you  were  about  to  honour  my 

'umble  domicile  with  a  visit,"  Mr.  Bows   said,  with  his  sad  voice. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  the  way  ?     Mr.  Pendennis  and  I  are  old  friends, 

I  Mrs.  Bolton — very  old  acquaintances ;  and  at  the  earliest  dav/n  of  his 

life  we  crossed  each  other." 

The  old  man  pointed  towards  the  door  with  a  trembling  finger, 
and  a  hat  in  the  other  hand,  and  in  an  attitude  slightly  theatrical ;  so 
were  his  words  when  he  spoke  somewhat  artificial,  and  chosen  from 
the  vocabulary  which  he  had  heard  all  his  life  from  the  painted  lips  of 
the  orators  before  the  stage-lamps.  But  he  was  not  acting  or  masque- 
rading, as  Pen  knew  very  well,  though  he  was  disposed  to  pooh-pooh 
the  old  fellow's  melo-dramatic  airs.  "  Come  along,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  as  you  are  so  very  pressing.  Mrs.  Bolton,  I  wish  you  a  good  day. 
Good-by,  Miss  Fanny;  I  shall  always  think  of  our  night  at  Vauxhall 
with  pleasure ;  and  be  sure  I  will  remember  the  theatre-tickets."  And 
he  took  her  hand,  pressed  it,  was  pressed  by  it,  and  was  gone. 

"  What  a  nice  young  man,  to  be  sure  !"  cried  Mrs.  Bolton. 

"  D'you  think  so,  ma  ? "  said  Fanny. 

"  I  was  a-thinkin'  who  he  was  like.  When  I  was  at  the  Wells 
with  Mrs.  Serle,"  Mrs.  Bolton  continued,  looking  through  the  window 
curtain  after  Pen,  as  he  went  up  the  court  with  Bows  ;  "  there  was  a 
young  gentleman  from  the  City,  that  used  to  come  in  a  tilbry,  in  a 
white  'at,  the  very  image  of  him,  on'y  his  whiskers  was  black,  and 
Mr.  P.'s  is  red." 

"  Law,  ma !  they  are  a  most  beautiful  hawburn,"  Fanny  said. 

"  He  used  to  come  for  Em'ly  Budd,  who  danced  Columbine  in 
I  *  'Arleykin  'Ornpipe,  or  the  Battle  of  Navarino,' when  Miss  de  la  Bosky 
i  was  took  ill — a  pretty  dancer,  and  a  fine  stage  figure  of  a  woman— and 
he  was  a  great  sugar-baker  in  the  City,  with  a  country  'ouse  at  'Omerton  ; 
I  and  he  used  to  drive  her  in  the  tilbry  down  Goswell  Street  Road ;  and 
one  day  they  drove  and  was  married  at  St.  Bartholomew's  Church, 
Smithfield,  where  they  'ad  their  bands  read  quite  private  ;  and  she 
now  keeps  her  carriage,  and  I  sor  her  name  in  the  paper  as  patroness 
of  the  Manshing-House  Ball  for  the  Washywomen's  Asylum.  And 
look  at  Lady  Mirabel— Captain  Costigan's  daughter— she  was  pro- 
feshn'l,  as  all  very  well  know."  Thus,  and  more  to  this  purpose,  Mrs. 
Bolton  spoke,  now  peeping  through  the  window-curtain,  now  cleaning 
the  mugs  and  plates,  and  consigning  them  to  their  place  in  the  corner 
cupboard  ;  and  finishing  her  speech  as  she  and  Fanny  shook  out  and 
folded  up  the  dinner-cloth  between  them,  and  restored  it  to  its  dravv'er 
in  the  tabic. 


470  PENDENNIS. 

Although  Costigan  had  once  before  been  made  pretty  accurately 
to  understand  what  Pen's  pecuniary  means  and  expectations  were,  I 
suppose  Cos  had  forgotten  the  infomiation  acquired  at  Chatteris  years 
ago,  or  had  been  induced  by  his  natural  enthusiasm  to  exaggerate  his 
friend's  income.  He  had  described  Fairoaks  Park  in  the  most  glow- 
ing terms  to  Mrs.  Bolton,  on  the  preceding  evening,  as  he  was  walking 
about  with  her  during  Pen's  little  escapade  with  Fanny,  had  dilated 
upon  the  enormous  wealth  of  Pen's  famous  uncle,  the  Major,  and  sho\\"n 
an  intimate  acquaintance  with  Arthur's  funded  and  landed  property. 
A^ery  likely  Mrs.  Bolton,  in  her  wisdom,  had  speculated  upon  these 
matters  during  the  night ;  and  had  had  visions  of  Fanny  driving  in  her 
carriage,  like  Mrs.  Bolton's  old  comrade,  the  dancer  of  Sadler's  Wells. 

In  the  last  operation  of  table-cloth  folding,  these  two  foolish  women, 
of  necessity,  came  close  together ;  and  as  Fanny  took  the  cloth  and 
gave  it  the  last  fold,  her  mother  put  her  finger  under  the  young  girl's 
chin,  and  kissed  her.  Again  the  red  signal  flew  out,  and  fluttered  on 
Fanny's  cheek.  What  did  it  mean?  It  was  not  alarm  this  time.  It 
was  pleasure  which  caused  the  poor  little  Fanny  to  blush  so.  Poor 
little  Fanny  !  What !  is  love  sin,  that  it  is  so  pleasant  at  the  beginning 
and  so  bitter  at  the  end  ? 

After  the  embrace,  Mrs.  Bolton  thought  proper  to  say  that  she 
was  a-going  out  upon  business,  and  that  Fanny  must  keep  the  lodge ; 
which  Fanny,  after  a  very  faint  objection  indeed,  consented  to  do.  So 
Mrs.  Bolton  took  her  bonnet  and  market-basket,  and  departed ;  and 
the  instant  she  was  gone,  Fanny  went  and  sate  by  the  window  which 
commanded  Bows's  door,  and  never  once  took  her  eyes  away  from  that 
quarter  of  Shepherd's  Inn. 

Betsy-Jane  and  Ameliar-Ann  were  buzzing  in  one  comer  of  the 
place;,  and  making  believe  to  read  out  of  a  picture-book,  which  one  of 
thei^  held  topsy-turvy.  It  was  a  grave  and  dreadful  tract,  of  Mr. 
Bolton's  collection.  Fanny  did  not  hear  her  sisters  prattling  over  it. 
She  noticed  nothing  but  Bows's  door. 

At  last  she  gave  a  little  shake,  and  her  eyes  lighted  up.  He  had 
come  out.  He  would  pass  the  door  again.  But  her  poor  little  coun- 
tenance feU  in  an  instant  more.  Pendennis,  indeed,  came  out ;  but 
Bows  followed  after  him.  They  passed  under  the  archway  together. 
He  only  took  off"  his  hat,  and  bowed  as  he  looked  in.  He  did  not  stop 
to  speak. 

In  three  or  four  minutes — Fanny  did  not  know  how  long,  but  she 
looked  furiously  at  him  when  he  came  into  the  lodge — Bows  returned 
alone,  and  entered  into  the  porter's  room. 

"  Where's  your  ma,  dear  ? "  he  said  to  Fanny. 

"  I  don't  know,"  Fanny  said,  with  an  angry  toss.  "  I  don't  follow 
ma's  steps  wherever  she  goes,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Bows." 


PENDENNIS.  471 

"Am  I  my  mother's  keeper  ?"  Bows  said,  with  his  usual  melancholy 
bitterness.  "  Come  here,  Betsy-Jane,  and  Amelia-Ann ;  I've  brought 
a  cake  for  the  one  who  can  read  her  letters  best,  and  a  cake  for  the 
other  who  can  read  them  the  next  best." 

When  the  young  ladies  had  undergone  the  examination  through 
which  Bows  put  them,  they  were  rewarded  with  their  gingerbread 
medals,  and  went  off  to  discuss  them  in  the  court.  Meanwhile  Fanny 
took  out  some  work,  and  pretended  to  busy  herself  with  it,  her  mind 
being  in  great  excitement  and  anger  as  she  plied  her  needle.  Bows 
sate  so  that  he  could  command  the  entrance  from  the  lodge  to  the 
street.  But  the  person  whom,  perhaps,  he  expected  to  see  never  made 
his  appearance  again.  And  Mrs.  Bolton  came  in  from  market,  and 
found  Mr.  Bows  in  place  of  the  person  whom  s/ie  had  expected  to  see. 
The  reader  perhaps  can  guess  what  was  his  name  ? 

The  interview  between  Bows  and  his  guest,  when  those  two 
mounted  to  the  apartment  occupied  by  the  former  in  common  with 
the  descendant  of  the  Milesian  kings,  was  not  particularly  satisfactory 
to  either  party.  Pen  was  sulky.  If  Bows  had  anything  on  his  mind, 
he  did  not  care  to  deliver  himself  of  his  thoughts  in  the  presence  of 
Captain  Costigan,  who  remained  in  the  apartment  during  the  whole 
of  Pen's  visit ;  having  quitted  his  bed-chamber,  indeed,  but  a  very  few 
minutes  before  the  arrival  of  that  gentleman.  We  have  witnessed 
the  deshabille  of  Major  Pendennis :  will  any  man  wish  to  be  valet- 
de-chambre  to  our  other  hero,  Costigan  ?  It  would  seem  that  the 
Captain,  before  issuing  from  his  bed-room,  scented  himself  with  otto 
of  whisky.  A  rich  odour  of  that  delicious  perfume  breathed  from  out 
him,  as  he  held  out  the  grasp  of  cordiality  to  his  visitor.  The  hand 
which  performed  that  grasp  shook  wofuUy :  it  was  a  wonder  how  it 
could  hold  the  razor  with  which  the  poor  gentleman  daily  operated  on 
his  chin. 

Bows's  room  was  as  neat,  on  the  other  hand,  as  his  comrade's  was 
disorderly.  His  humble  wardrobe  hung  behind  a  curtain.  His  books 
and  manuscript  music  were  trimly  arranged  upon  shelves.  A  litho- 
graphed portrait  of  Miss  Fotheringay,  as  Mrs.  Haller,  with  the 
actress's  sprawling  signature  at  the  corner,  hung  faithfully  over  the 
old  gentleman's  bed.  Lady  Mirabel  wrote  much  better  than  Miss 
Fotheringay  had  been  able  to  do.  Her  Ladyship  had  laboured 
assiduously  to  acquire  the  art  of  penmanship  since  her  marriage  ;  and, 
in  a  common  note  of  invitation  or  acceptance,  acquitted  herself  very 
genteelly.  Bows  loved  the  old  handwriting  best,  though  ;  the  fair 
artist's  earlier  manner.  He  had  but  one  specimen  of  the  new  style, 
a  note  in  reply  to  a  song  composed  and  dedicated  to  Lady  Mirabel, 
by  her  most  humble  servant  Robert  Bows ;  and  which  document  was 
treasured  in  his  desk  among  his  other  state  papers.     He  was  teaching 


472 


PENDENNIS. 


Fanny  Bolton  now  to  sing  and  to  write,  as  he  had  taught  Emily  in 
former  days.  It  was  the  nature  of  the  man  to  attach  himself  to  some- 
thing. When  Emily  was  torn  from  him  he  took  a  substitute:  as  a 
man  looks  out  for  a  crutch  when  he  loses  a  leg,  or  lashes  himself  to  a 
raft  when  he  has  suffered  shipwreck.  Latude  had  given  his  heart  to 
a  woman,  no  doubt,  before  he  grew  to  be  so  fond  of  a  mouse  in  the 
Bastille.  There  are  people  who  in  their  youth  have  felt  and  inspired 
an  heroic  passion,  and  end  by  being  happy  in  the  caresses,  or  agitated 
by  the  illness,  of  a  poodle.  But  it  was  hard  upon  Bows,  and  grating 
to  his  feelings  as  a  man  and  a  sentimentalist,  that  he  should  find  Pen 
again  upon  his  track,  and  in  pursuit  of  this  little  Fanny. 

Meanv.'hile,  Costigan  had  not  the  least  idea  but  that  his  company 
was  perfectly  welcome  to  Messrs.  Pendennis  and  Bows,  and  that  the 
visit  of  the  former  was  intended  for  himself.  He  expressed  himself 
greatly  pleased  with  that  mark  of  poloightness,  and  promised,  in  his 
own  mind,  that  he  would  repay  that  obligation  at  least,  which  was  not 
the  only  debt  which  the  Captain  owed  in  life,  by  several  visits  to  his 
young  friend.  He  entertained  him  affably  with  news  of  the  day,  or 
rather  of  ten  days  previous ;  for  Pen,  in  his  quality  of  Journalist,  re- 
membered to  have  seen  some  of  the  Captain's  opinions  in  the  Sporting 
and  Theatrical  Newspaper,  which  was  Costigan's  oracle.  He  stated 
that  Sir  Charles  and  Lady  Mirabel  were  gone  to  Baden-Baden,  and 
were  most  pressing  in  their  invitations  that  he  should  join  them  there. 
Pen  replied,  with  great  gravity,  that  he  had  heard  that  Baden  was 
very  pleasant,  and  the  Grand  Duke  exceedingly  hospitable  to  English. 
Costigan  answered,  that  the  laws  of  hospitalitee  bekeam  a  Grand  Juke ; 
that  he  sariously  would  think  about  visiting  him :  and  made  some 
remarks  upon  the  splendid  festivities  at  Dublin  Castle,  when  his 
Excellency  the  Earl  of  Portansherry  held  the  Viceraygal  Coort  there, 
and  of  which  he,  Costigan,  had  been  a  humble  but  pleased  spectator. 
And  Pen — as  he  heard  these  oft-told  well-remembered  legends  — 
recollected  the  time  when  he  had  given  a  sort  of  credence  to  them, 
and  had  a  certain  respect  for  the  Captain.  Emily  and  first  love,  and 
the  little  room  at  Chatteris,  and  the  kind  talk  with  Bows  on  the 
bridge,  came  back  to  him.  He  felt  quite  kindly  disposed  towards  his 
two  old  friends ;  and  cordially  shook  the  hands  of  both  of  them  when 
he  rose  to  go  away. 

He  had  quite  forgotten  about  little  Fanny  Bolton  whilst  the  Cap- 
tain was  talking,  and  Pen  himself  was  absorbed  in  other  selfish  medi- 
tations. He  only  remembered  her  again  as  Bows  came  hobbling 
down  the  stairs  after  him,  bent  evidently  upon  following  him  out  of 
Shepherd's  Inn. 

Mr.  Bows's  precaution  was  not  a  lucky  one.  The  wrath  of 
Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  rose  at  the  poor  old  fellow's  feeble  persecution. 


PENDENNIS.  473 

Confound  him,  what  docs  he  mean  by  dogging  me  ?  thougJit  Pen. 
And  he  burst  out  laughing,  when  he  was  in  the  Strand  and  by  him- 
self, as  he  thought  of  the  elder's  stratagem.  It  was  not  an  honest 
laugh,  Arthur  Pendennis.  Perhaps  the  thought  struck  Arthur  himself, 
and  he  blushed  at  his  own  sense  of  humour. 

He  went  off  to  endeavour  to  banish  the  thoughts  which  occupied 
him,  whatever  those  thoughts  might  be,  and  tried  various  places  of 
amusement  with  but  indifferent  success.  He  struggled  up  the  highest 
stairs  of  the  Panorama;  but  when  he  had  arrived,  panting,  at  the 
height  of  the  eminence.  Care  had  come  up  with  him,  and  was  bearing 
him  company.  He  went  to  the  Club,  and  wrote  a  long  letter  home, 
exceedingly  witty  and  sarcastic,  and  in  which,  if  he  did  not  say  a 
single  word  about  Vauxhall  and  Fanny  Bolton,  it  was  because  he 
thought  that  subject,  however  interesting  to  himself,  would  not  be  very 
interesting  to  his  mother  and  Laura.  Nor  could  the  novels  or  the 
library-table  fix  his  attention,  nor  the  grave  and  respectable  Jawkins 
(the  only  man  in  town),  who  wished  to  engage  him  in  conversation : 
nor  any  of  the  amusements  which  he  tried,  after  flying  from  Jawkins. 
He  passed  a  Comic  Theatre  on  his  way  home,  and  saw  "  Stunning 
Farce,"  "  Roars  of  Laughter,"  "  Good  Old  English  Fun  and  Frolic," 
placarded  in  vermilion  letters  on  the  gate.  He  went  into  the  pit,  and 
saw  the  lovely  Mrs.  Leary,  as  usual,  in  a  man's  attire ;  and  that  emi- 
nent buffo  actor,  Tom  Horseman,  dressed  as  a  woman.  Horseman's 
travestie  seemed  to  him  a  horrid  and  hideous  degradation;  Mrs.  Leary's 
glances  and  ankles  had  not  the  least  effect.  He  laughed  again,  and 
bitterly,  to  himself,  as  he  thought  of  the  effect  which  she  had  produced 
upon  him,  on  the  lirst  night  of  his  arrival  in  London,  a  short  time — 
what  a  long  long  time  ago  ! 


474  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

IN  OR  NEAR  THE  TEMPLE  GARDEN. 

FASHION  has  long  deserted  the  green  and  prettj-  Temple  Garden, 
in  which  Shakspeare  makes  York  and  Lancaster  to  pluck  the 
innocent  white  and  red  roses  which  became  the  badges  of  their  blood}' 
wars  ;  and  the  learned  and  pleasant  writer  of  the  "  Handbook  of 
London  "  tells  us  that  "  the  commonest  and  hardiest  kind  of  rose  has 
long  ceased  to  put  forth  a  bud  "  in  that  smoky  air.  Not  many  of  th  j 
present  occupiers  of  the  buildings  round  about  the  quarter  know  or  car. . 
very  likely,  whether  or  not  roses  grow  there,  or  pass  the  old  gate,  excej 
on  their  way  to  chambers.  The  attorneys'  clerks  don't  carry  flov.-ers 
in  their  bags,  or  posies  under  their  arms,  as  they  run  to  the  counsel's 
chambers — the  few  lawyers  who  take  constitutional  walks  think  very 
little  about  York  and  Lancaster,  especially  since  the  railroad  business 
is  over.  Only  antiquarians  and  literarj'  amateurs  care  to  look  at  the 
gardens  with  much  interest,  and  fancy  good  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley 
and  Mr.  Spectator  with  his  short  face  pacing  up  and  down  the  road  ; 
or  dear  Oliver  Goldsmith  in  the  summer-house,  perhaps  meditating 
about  the  next  "  Citizen  of  the  World,"  or  the  new  suit  that  Mr.  Filby, 
the  tailor,  is  fashioning  for  him,  or  the  dunning  letter  that  Mr,  New- 
bury has  sent.  Treading  heavily  on  the  gravel,  and  rolling  majes- 
tically along  in  a  snuff-coloured  suit,  and  a  wig  that  sadly  wants  the 
barber's  powder  and  irons,  one  sees  the  Great  Doctor  step  up  to  him 
(his  Scotch  lackey  following  at  the  lexicographer's  heels,  a  little  the 
worse  for  the  port  wine  that  they  had  been  taking  at  the  Mitre),  and 
Mr.  Johnson  asks  Mr.  Goldsmith  to  come  home  and  take  a  dish  of 
tea  with  Miss  Williams.  Kind  faith  of  Fancy  !  Sir  Roger  and 
Mr.  Spectator  are  as  real  to  us  now  as  the  two  doctors  and  the  boozy 
and  faithful  Scotchman.  The  poetical  figures  live  in  our  memory 
just  as  much  as  the  real  personages, — and  as  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis 
was  of  a  romantic  and  literary  turn,  by  no  means  addicted  to  the  legal 
pursuits  common  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  place,  we  may  presume 
that  he  was  cherishing  some  such  poetical  reflections  as  these,  when 
upon  the  evening  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  last  chapter,  the 
young  gentleman  chose  the  Temple  Gardens  as  a  place  for  exercise 
and  meditation. 


PEN'DEN'JVr^.  475 

On  the  Sunday  evening,  the  Temple  is  commonly  calm.  The 
chambers  are  for  the  most  part  vacant  :  the  great  lawyers  are  giving 
grand  dinner-parties  at  their  houses  in  the  Belgravian  or  Tyburnian 
districts  ;  the  agreeable  young  barristers  are  absent,  attending  those 
parties,  and  paying  their  respects  to  Mr.  Kewsy's  excellent  claret,  or 
Mr.  Justice  Ermine's  accomplished  daughters  :  the  uninvited  are 
partaking  of  the  economic  joint  and  the  modest  half-pint  of  wine  at 
the  Club,  entertaining  themselves  and  the  rest  of  the  company  in  the 
Club-room  with  Circuit  jokes  and  points  of  wit  and  law.  Nobody  is 
in  chambers  at  all,  except  poor  Mr.  Cockle,  who  is  ill,  and  whose 
laundress  is  making  him  gruel  ;  or  Mr.  Toodle,  who  is  an  amateur  of 
the  flute,  and  whom  you  may  hear  piping  solitary  from  his  chambers 
in  the  second  floor  ;  or  youiig  Tiger,  the  student,  from  whose  open 
windows  comes  a  great  gush  of  cigar-smoke,  and  at  whose  door  are  a 
quantity  of  dishes  and  covers,  bearing  the  insignia  of  Dick's  or  the 
Cock.  But  stop  !  Whither  does  Fancy  lead  us  ?  It  is  vacation 
time  ;  and  with  the  exception  of  Pendennis,  nobody  is  in  chambers 
at  all. 

Perhaps  it  was  solitude,  then,  which  drove  Pen  into  the  garden  ; 
for  although  he  had  never  before  passed  the  gate,  and  had  looked 
rather  carelessly  at  the  pretty  flower-beds,  and  the  groups  of  pleased 
citizens  sauntering  over  the  trim  lawn  and  the  broad  gravel-walks  by 
the  river,  on  this  evening  it  happened,  as  we  have  said,  that  the  young 
gentleman,  who  had  dined  alone  at  a  tavern  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
the  Temple,  took  a  fancy,  as  he  was  returning  home  to  his  chambers, 
to  take  a  little  walk  in  the  gardens,  and  enjoy  the  fresh  evening  air, 
and  the  sight  of  the  shining  Thames.  After  walking  for  a  brief  space, 
and  looking  at  the  many  peaceful  and  happy  groups  round  about  him, 
he  grew  tired  of  the  exercise,  and  betook  himself  to  one  of  the 
summer-houses  which  flank  either  end  of  the  main  walk,  and  there 
modestly  seated  himself  What  were  his  cogitations  ?  The  evening 
was  delightfully  bright  and  calm ;  the  sky  was  cloudless ;  the  chimneys 
on  the  opposite  bank  were  not  smoking ;  the  wharfs  and  warehouses 
looked  rosy  in  the  sunshine,  and  as  clear  as  if  they,  too,  had  washed 
for  the  holiday.  The  steamers  rushed  rapidly  up  and  down  the 
stream,  laden  with  holiday  passengers.  The  bells  of  the  multitudinous 
City  churches  were  ringing  to  evening  prayers, — such  peaceful  Sabbath 
evenings  as  this  Pen  may  have  remembered  in  his  early  days,  as  he 
paced,  with  his  arm  round  his  mother's  waist,  on  the  terrace  before  the 
lawn  at  home.  The  sun  was  lighting  up  the  little  Brawl,  too,  as  well 
as  the  broad  Thames,  and  sinking  downwards  majestically  behind  the 
Clavering  elms,  and  the  tower  of  the  familiar  village  church.  Was  it 
thoughts  of  these,  or  the  sunset  merely,  that  caused  the  blush  on  the 
young  man's  face?     He  beat  time  on  the  bench  to  the  chorus  of  the 


476  PENDENNIS. 

bells  without ;  flicked  the  dust  off  his  shining  boots  with  his  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  starting  up,  stamped  with  his  foot  and  said,  "  No, 
by  Jove,  I'll  go  home."  And  with  this  resolution,  which  indicated 
that  some  struggle  as  to  the  propriety  of  remaining  where  he  was,  or 
of  quitting  the  garden,  had  been  going  on  in  his  mind,  he  stepped  out 
of  the  summer-house. 

He  nearly  knocked  down  two  little  children,  who  did  not  indeed 
reach  much  higher  than  his  knee,  and  were  trotting  along  the  gravel- 
walk,  with  their  long  blue  shadows  slanting  towards  the  east. 

One  cried  out  ''  Oh !  ■'  the  other  began  to  laugh ;  and  with  a  know- 
ing little  infantine  chuckle,  said  "  Missa  Pen-dennis  !"  And  Arthur, 
looking  down,  saw  his  two  little  friends  of  the  day  before,  Mes- 
demoiselles  Ameliar-Ann  and  Betsy-Jane.  He  blushed  more  than 
ever  at  seeing  them,  and  seizing  the  one  whom  he  had  nearly  upset, 
jumped  her  up  into  the  air,  and  kissed  her :  at  which  sudden  assault 
Ameliar-Ann  began  to  cry  in  great  alarm. 

This  cry  brought  up  instantly  two  ladies  in  clean  collars  and  new 
ribbons,  and  grand  shawls,  namely :  Mrs.  Bolton  in  a  rich  scarlet 
Caledonian  Cashmere,  and  a  black  silk  dress,  and  Miss  F.  Bolton 
with  a  yellow  scarf  and  a  sweet  sprigged  muslin,  and  a  parasol — quite 
the  lady.  Fanny  did  not  say  one  single  word  :  though  her  eyes  flashed 
a  welcome,  and  shone  as  bright — as  bright  as  the  most  blazing 
windows  in  Paper  Buildings.  But  Mrs.  Bolton,  after  admonishing 
Betsy-Jane,  said,  "  Lor',  sir — how  very  odd  that  we  should  meet  you 
year  ?  I  'ope  you  'ave  your  'ealth  well,  sir. — Ain't  it  odd,  Fanny,  that 
we  should  meet  Mr.  Pendennis  ?''  What  do  you  mean  by  sniggering, 
Mesdames.-*  When  young  Croesus  has  been  staying  at  a  countr}- 
house,  have  you  never,  by  any  singular  coincidence,  been  walking 
with  your  Fanny  in  the  shrubberies  ?  Have  you  and  your  Fanny 
never  happened  to  be  listening  to  the  band  of  the  Heavies  at  Brighton, 
when  young  De  Boots  and  Captain  Padmore  came  clinking  down  the 
Pier?  Have  you  and  your  darling  Frances  never  chanced  to  be 
visiting  old  widow  Wheezy  at  the  cottage  on  the  common,  when  the 
young  curate  has  stepped  in  with  a  tract  adapted  to  the  rheumatism .'' 
Do  you  suppose  that,  if  singular  coincidences  occur  at  the  Hall,  they 
don't  also  happen  at  the  Lodge  ? 

It  was  a  coincidence,  no  doubt :  that  was  all.  In  the  course  of 
the  conversation  on  the  day  previous,  Mr.  Pendennis  had  merely  said, 
in  the  simplest  way  imaginable,  and  in  reply  to  a  question  of  Miss 
Bolton,  that  although  some  of  the  courts  were  gloomy,  parts  of  the 
Temple  were  very  cheerful  and  agreeable,  especially  the  chambers 
looking  on  the  river  and  around  the  gardens,  and  that  the  gardens 
were  a  very  pleasant  walk  on  Sunday  evenings  and  frequented  by  a 
great  number   of  people — and  here,  by  the  merest  chance,  all  our 


PEiYDENNIS.  477 

acquaintances  met  together,  just  like  so  many  people  in  genteel  life. 
What  could  be  more  artless,  good-natured,  or  natural  ? 

Pen  looked  very  grave,  pompous,  and  dandified.  He  was  unusually- 
smart  and  brilliant  in  his  costume.  His  white  duck  trowsers  and  white 
hat,  his  neckcloth  of  many  colours,  his  light  waistcoat,  gold  chains, 
and  shirt-studs,  gave  him  the  air  of  a  prince  of  the  blood  at  least. 
How  his  splendour  became  his  figure !  Was  anybody  ever  like  him  "? 
some  one  thought.  He  blushed— how  his  blushes  became  him !  the 
same  individual  said  to  herself.  The  children,  on  seeing  him  the  day 
before,  had  been  so  struck  with  him,  that  after  he  had  gone  away  they 
had  been  playing  at  him.  And  Ameliar-Ann,  sticking  her  little  chubby 
fingers  into  the  arm-holes  of  her  pinafore,  as  Pen  was  wont  to  do  with 
his  waistcoat,  had  said,  "  Now,  Bessy-Jane,  I'll  be  Missa  Pendennis." 
Fanny  had  laughed  till  she  cried,  and  smothered  her  sister  with  kisses 
for  that  feat.  How  happy,  too,  she  was  to  see  Arthur  embracing  the 
child ! 

If  Arthur  was  red,  Fanny,  on  the  contrarj',  was  very  worn  and 
pale.  Arthur  remarked  it,  and  asked  kindly  why  she  looked  so 
fatigued. 

"  I  was  awake  all  night,"  said  Fanny,  and  began  to  blush  a  little. 

"  I  put  out  her  candle,  and  hordered  hQx  to  go  to  sleep  and  leave  off 
readin',"  interposed  the  fond  mother. 

"  You  were  reading  !  And  what  was  it  that  interested  you  so  ? " 
asked  Pen,  amused. 

"  Oh,  it's  so  beautiful ! "  said  Fanny. 

"What?" 

" '  Walter  Lorraine,' "  Fanny  sighed  out.  '•  How  I  do  hate  that 
Neara — Naera — I  don't  know  the  pronounciation.  And  how  I  love 
Leonora,  and  Walter ;  oh,  how  dear  he  is ! " 

How  had  Fanny  discovered  the  novel  of  "  Walter  Lorraine,"  and 
that  Pen  was  the  author  ?  This  little  person  remembered  every  single 
word  which  Mr.  Pendennis  had  spoken  on  the  night  previous,  and  how 
he  wrote  in  books  and  newspapers.  What  books  .''  She  was  so  eager 
to  know,  that  she  had  almost  a  mind  to  be  civil  to  old  Bows,  who  was 
suffering  under  her  displeasure  since  yesterday,  but  she  determined 
first  to  make  application  to  Costigan.  She  began  by  coaxing  the 
Captain  and  smiling  upon  him  in  her  most  winning  way,  as  she  helped 
to  arrange  his  dinner  and  set  his  humble  apartment  in  order.  She 
was  sure  his  linen  wanted  mending  (and  indeed  the  Captain's  linen- 
closet  contained  some  curious  specimens  of  manufactured  flax  and 
cotton).  She  would  mend  his  shirts — all  his  shirts.  What  horrid 
holes — what  funny  holes  !  She  put  her  little  face  through  one  of  them, 
and  laughed  at  the  old  warrior  in  the  most  winning  manner.  She 
would  have  made  a  funny  little  picture  looking  through  the  holes. 


478  PEiXDENNIS. 

Then  she  daintily  removed  Costigan's  dinner  things,  tripping  about 
the  room  as  she  had  seen  the  dancers  do  at  the  play ;  and  she  danced 
to  the  Captain's  cupboard,  and  produced  his  whisky-bottle,  and  mixed 
him  a  tumbler,  and  must  taste  a  drop  of  it — a  little  drop ;  and  the 
Captain  must  sing  her  one  of  his  songs,  his  dear  songs,  and  teach  it 
to  her.  And  when  he  had  sung  an  Irish  melody  in  his  rich  quavering 
voice,  fancying  it  was  he  who  was  fascinating  the  little  Siren,  she  put 
her  little  question  about  Arthur  Pendennis  and  his  novel,  and  having 
got  an  answer,  cared  for  nothing  more,  but  left  the  Captain  at  the 
piano  about  to  sing  her  another  song,  and  the  dinner-tray  on  the 
passage,  and  the  shirts  on  the  chair,  and  ran  down-stairs,  quickening 
her  pace  as  she  sped. 

Captain  Costigan,  as  he  said,  was  not  a  litherary  cyarkter,  nor  had 
he  as  yet  found  time  to  peruse  his  young  friend's  ellygant  perfauru- 
mance,  though  he  intended  to  teak  an  early  opporchunitee  of  pur- 
chasing a  cawpee  of  his  work.  But  he  knew  the  name  of  Pen's  novel 
from  the  fact  that  Messrs.  Finucane,  Bludyer,  and  other  frequenters  of 
the  Back- Kitchen,  spoke  of  Mr.  Pendennis  (not  all  of  them  with  great 
friendship ;  for  Bludyer  called  him  a  confounded  coxcomb,  and  Hoolan 
wondered  that  Doolan  did  not  kick  him,  &c.)  by  the  sobriquet  of 
Walter  Lorraine, — and  was  hence  enabled  to  give  Fanny  the  informa- 
tion which  she  required. 

"  And  she  went  and  ast  for  it  at  the  libery,"  Mrs.  Bolton  said, — 
'•'  several  liberies — and  some  'ad  it  and  it  was  hout,  and  some  'adn't  it. 
And  one  of  the  liberies  as  'ad  it  wouldn't  let  her  'ave  it  without  a  seve- 
ring :  and  she  'adn't  one,  and  she  came  back  a-cryin'  to  me — didn't 
you,  Fanny  ? — and  I  gave  her  a  sovering." 

"  And,  oh,  I  was  in  such  a  fright  lest  any  one  should  have  come 
to  the  libery  and  took  it  while  I  was  away,"  Fanny  said,  her  cheeks 
and  eyes  glowing.     "  And,  oh,  I  do  like  it  so ! " 

Arthur  was  touched  by  this  artless  sympathy,  immensely  flattered 
and  moved  by  it.  "  Do  you  like  it  ?"  he  said.  "  If  you  will  come  up 
to  my  chambers  I  will — No,  I  will  bring  you  one — no,  I  will  send  you 
one.  Good-night.  Thank  you,  Fanny.  God  bless  you.  I  mustn't 
stay  with  you.  Good-by,  good-by."  And,  pressing  her  hand  once, 
and  nodding  to  her  mother  and  the  other  children,  he  strode  out  of 
the  gardens. 

He  quickened  his  pace  as  he  went  from  them,  and  ran  out  of  the 
gate  talking  to  himself.  "  Dear,  dear  little  thing,"  he  said, — "  darling 
little  Fanny!  You  are  worth  them  all.  I  wish  to  heaven  Shandon 
was  back.  I'd  go  home  to  my  mother.  I  mustn't  see  her.  I  won't. 
I  won't,  so  help  me — " 

As  he  was  talking  thus,  and  running,  the  passers-by  turning  to  look 
at  him,  he  ran  against  a  little  old  man,  and  perceived  it  was  IMr.  Bows. 


PENDENNIS.  479 

"  Your  very  'umble  servant,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Bows,  making  a  sarcastic 
bow,  and  lifting  his  old  hat  from  his  forehead. 

"  I  wish  you  a  good  day,"  Arthur  answered  sulkily.  "  Don't  let  me 
detain  you,  or  give  you  the  trouble  to  follow  me  again.  I  am  in  a 
hurry,  sir;  good  evening." 

Bows  thought  Pen  had  some  reason  for  hurrying  to  his  rooms. 
"  Where  are  they  ? "  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman.  "  You  know  whom 
I  mean.  They're  not  in  your  rooms,  sir,  are  they  ?  They  told 
Bolton  they  were  going  to  church  at  the  Temple ;  they  weren't  there. 
They  are  in  your  chambers :  they  mustn't  stay  in  your  chambers, 
Mr.  Pendennis." 

"  Damn  it,  sir !  "  cried  out  Pendennis,  fiercely.  "  Come  and  see 
if  they  are  in  my  chambers  :  here's  the  court  and  the  door — come  in 
and  see."  And  Bows,  taking  off  his  hat  and  bowing  first,  followed  the 
young  man. 

They  were  not  in  Pen's  chambers,  as  we  know.  But  when  the 
gardens  were  closed,  the  two  women,  who  had  had  but  a  melancholy 
evening's  amusement,  walked  away  sadly  with  the  children,  and  they 
entered  into  Lamb  Court,  and  stood  under  the  lamp-post  which 
cheerfully  ornaments  the  centre  of  that  quadrangle,  and  looked  up  to 
the  third  floor  of  the  house  where  Pendennis's  chambers  were,  and 
where  they  saw  a  light  presently  kindled.  Then  this  couple  of  fools 
vv^ent  away,  the  children  dragging  wearily  after  them,  and  returned 
to  Mr.  Bolton,  who  was  immersed  in  rum-and-water  at  his  lodgings  in 
Shepherd's  Inn. 

Mr.  Bows  looked  round  the  blank  room  which  the  young  man 
occupied,  and  which  had  received  but  very  few  ornaments  or  additions 
since  the  last  time  we  saw  them.  Warrington's  old  bookcase  and 
battered  library.  Pen's  writing-table  with  its  litter  of  papers,  presented 
an  aspect  cheerless  enough.  "  Will  you  like  to  look  in  the  bed-rooms, 
Mr.  Bows,  and  see  if  my  victims  are  there?"  he  said  bitterly;  "or 
whether  I  have  made  away  with  the  httle  girls,  and  hid  them  in  the 
coal-hole  ? " 

"  Your  word  is  sufficient,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  the  other  eaid  in  his  sad 
tone.  "  You  say  they  are  not  here,  and  I  know  they  are  not.  And  I 
hope  they  never  have  been  here,  and  never  will  come." 

"  Upon  my  word,  sir,  you  are  very  good,  to  choose  my  acquaint- 
ances for  me,"  Arthur  said,  in  a  haughty  tone ;  "  and  to  suppose  that 
anybody  would  be  the  worse  for  my  society.  I  remember  you,  and 
owe  you  kindness  from  old  times,  Mr.  Bows ;  or  I  should  speak  more 
angrily  than  I  do,  about  a  very  intolerable  sort  of  persecution  to 
which  you  seem  inclined  to  subject  me.  You  followed  me  out  of  your 
Inn  yesterday,  as  if  you  wanted  to  watch  that  I  shouldn't  steal  some- 


48o  PENDENNIS. 

thing."  Here  Pen  stammered  and  turned  red,  directly  he  had  said 
the  words ;  he  felt  he  had  given  the  other  an  opening,  which  Bows 
instantly  took. 

"  I  do  think  you  came  to  steal  something,  as  you  say  the  words, 
sir,"  Bows  said.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  came  to  pay  a  visit 
to  poor  old  Bows,  the  fiddler?  or  to  Mrs.  Bolton,  at  the  porter's 
lodge  ?  Oh  fie  !  Such  a  fine  gentleman  as  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esquire, 
doesn't  condescend  to  walk  up  to  my  garret,  or  to  sit  in  a  laundress's 
kitchen,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own.  And  my  belief  is  that  you  came 
to  steal  a  pretty  girl's  heart  away,  and  to  ruin  it,  and  to  spurn  it 
afterwards,  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis.  That's  what  the  world  makes  of 
you  young  dandies,  you  gentlemen  of  fashion,  you  high  and  mighty 
aristocrats  that  trample  upon  the  people.  It's  sport  to  you,  but  what 
is  it  to  the  poor,  think  you ;  the  toys  of  your  pleasures,  whom  you  play 
with  and  whom  you  fling  into  the  streets  when  you  are  tired  ?  I  know 
your  order,  sir.  I  know  your  selfishness  and  your  arrogance,  and  your 
pride.  What  does  it  matter  to  my  lord,  that  the  poor  man's  daughter 
is  made  miserable,  and  her  family  brought  to  shame  ?  You  must  have 
your  pleasures,  and  the  people,  of  course,  must  pay  for  them.  WTiat 
are  we  made  for,  but  for  that  ?  It's  the  way  with  you  all — the  way  with 
you  all,  sir." 

Bows  was  speaking  beside  the  question,  and  Pen  had  his  advantage 
here,  which  he  was  not  sorr>'  to  take — not  sorry  to  put  off  the  debate 
from  the  point  upon  which  his  adversary  had  first  engaged  it.  Arthur 
broke  out  with  a  sort  of  laugh,  for  which  he  asked  Bows's  pardon. 
"  Yes,  I  am  an  aristocrat,"  he  said  ;  "  in  a  palace  up  three  pair  of 
stairs,  with  a  carpet  nearly  as  handsome  as  yours,  Mr.  Bows.  My 
life  is  passed  in  grinding  the  people,  is  it  ? — in  ruining  virgins  and 
robbing  the  poor  ?  My  good  sir,  this  is  very  well  in  a  comedy,  where 
Job  Thornberr}'  slaps  his  breast,  and  asks  my  lord  how  dare  he 
trample  on  an  honest  man  and  poke  out  an  Englishman's  fireside; 
but  in  real  life,  Mr.  Bows,  to  a  man  who  has  to  work  for  his  bread  as 
much  as  you  do — how  can  you  talk  about  aristocrats  tyrannizing  over 
the  people  ?  Have  I  ever  done  you  a  wrong  ?  or  assumed  airs  of 
superiority  over  you  ?  Did  you  not  have  an  early  regard  for  me — in 
days  when  we  were  both  of  us  romantic  young  fellows,  Mr.  Bows  ? 
Come,  don't  be  angry  with  me  now,  and  let  us  be  as  good  friends  as 
we  were  before." 

"  Those  days  were  very  different,"  Mr.  Bows  answered ;  ''  and 
Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  was  an  honest,  impetuous  young  fellow  then ; 
rather  selfish  and  conceited,  perhaps,  but  honest.  And  I  liked  you 
then,  because  you  were  ready  to  ruin  yourself  for  a  woman." 

"  And  now,  sir  ? "  Arthur  asked. 

"  And  now  times  are  changed,  and  you  want  a  woman  to  ruin  her- 


PENDENNIS.  481 

self  for  you,"  Bows  answered.  "  I  know  this  child,  sir.  I've  always 
said  this  lot  was  hanging  over  her.  She  has  heated  her  little  brain 
with  novels,  until  her  whole  thoughts  are  about  love  and  lovers,  and 
she  scarcely  sees  that  she  treads  on  a  kitchen  floor.  I  have  taught  the 
little  thing.  She  is  full  of  many  talents  and  winning  ways,  I  grant  you. 
I  am  fond  of  the  girl,  sir.  I'm  a  lonely  old  man;  I  lead  a  life  that  1 
don't  like,  among  boon  companions,  who  make  me  melancholy.  I  have 
but  this  child  that  I  care  for.  Have  pity  upon  me,  and  don't  take  her 
away  from  me,  Mr.  Pendennis — don't  take  her  away." 

The  old  man's  voice  broke  as  he  spoke.  Its  accents  touched  Pen, 
much  more  than  the  menacing  or  sarcastic  tone  which  Bows  had  com- 
menced by  adopting. 

"  Indeed,"  said  he,  kindly,  "you  do  me  a  wrong  if  you  fancy  I 
intend  one  to  poor  little  Fanny.  I  never  saw  her  till  Friday  night.  It 
was  the  merest  chance  that  our  friend  Costigan  threw  her  into  my  way. 
I  have  no  intentions  regarding  her — that  is — " 

"  That  is,  you  know  very  well  that  she  is  a  foolish  girl,  and  her 
mother  a  foolish  woman, — that  is,  you  meet  her  in  the  Temple 
Gardens,  and  of  course  without  previous  concert, — that  is,  that  when' 
I  found  her  yesterday,  reading  the  book  you've  wrote,  she  scorned 
me,"  Bows  said.  "  What  am  I  good  for  but  to  be  laughed  at  ? 
a  deformed  old  fellow  like  me ;  an  old  fiddler  that  wears  a  thread- 
bare coat,  and  gets  his  bread  by  playing  tunes  at  an  alehouse  ?  You 
are  a  fine  gentleman,  you  are.  You  wear  scent  in  your  handkerchief, 
and  a  ring  on  your  finger.  You  go  to  dine  with  great  people.  Who 
ever  gives  a  crust  to  old  Bows  ?  And  yet  I  might  have  been  as  good 
a  man  as  the  best  of  you.  I  might  have  been  a  man  of  genius,  if  I 
had  had  the  chance ;  ay,  and  have  lived  with  the  master-spirits  of  the 
land.  But  everything  has  failed  with  me.  I'd  ambition  once,  and 
wrote  plays,  poems,  music— nobody  would  give  me  a  hearing.  I  never 
loved  a  woman,  but  she  laughed  at  me ;  and  here  I  am  in  my  old  age 
alone — alone !  Don't  take  this  girl  from  me,  Mr.  Pendennis,  I  say 
again.  Leave  her  with  me  a  little  longer.  She  was  like  a  child  to  me 
till  yesterday.  Why  did  you  step  in,  and  make  her  mock  my  deformity 
and  old  age .'' " 

"  I  am  guiltless  of  that,  at  least,"  Arthur  said,  with  something  of  a 
sigh.  "  Upon  my  word  of  honour,  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  the  girl. 
My  caUing  is  not  seduction,  Mr.  Bows.  I  did  not  imagine  that  I  had 
made  an  impression  on  poor  Fanny,  until — until  to-night.  And  then, 
sir,  I  was  sorry,  and  was  flying  from  my  temptation,  as  you  came 
upon  me.  And,"  he  added,  with  a  glow  upon  his  cheek,  which,  in 
the  gathering  darkness,  his  companion  could  not  see,  and  with  an 
audible  tremor  in  his  voice,  "  I  do  not  mind  telling  you,  sir,  that  on 
this  sabbath  evening,  as  the  church  bells  wc-re  ringing,  I  thought  of 

31 


482  PENDENNIS. 

my  own  home,  and  of  women  angelically  pure  and  good,  who  dwell 
there;  and  I  was  running  hither  as  I  met  you,  that  I  might  avoid  the 
danger  which  besets  me,  and  ask  strength  of  God  Almighty  to  do 
my  duty." 

After  these  words  from  Arthur  a  silence  ensued,  and  when  the  con- 
versation was  resumed  by  his  guest,  the  latter  spoke  in  a  tone  which 
was  much  more  gentle  and  friendly.  And  on  taking  farewell  of  Pen, 
Bows  asked  leave  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  with  a  very  warm 
?.nd  affectionate  greeting  on  both  sides,  apologised  to  Arthur  for  having 
mistaken  him,  and  paid  him  some  compliments  which  caused  the 
young  man  to  squeeze  his  old  friend's  hand  heartily  again.  And  as 
they  parted  at  Pen's  door,  Arthur  said  he  had  given  a  promise,  and  he 
hoped  and  trusted  that  Mr.  Bows  might  rely  on  it  ? 

"  Amen  to  that  prayer,"  said  Mr.  Bows,  and  went  slowly  down  the 
stair. 


PENDENNIS,  4«3 


CHAPTER   L. 

THE   HAPry   VILLAGE   AGAIN. 

EARLY  in  this  history,  we  have  had  occasion  to  speak  of  the  little 
town  of  Clavering,  near  which  Pen's  paternal  home  of  Fairoaks 
stood,  and  of  some  of  the  people  who  inhabited  the  place ;  and  as  the 
society  there  was  by  no  means  amusing  or  pleasant,  our  reports  con- 
cerning it  were  not  carried  to  any  very  great  length.  Mr.  Samuel 
Huxter,  the  gentleman  whose  acquaintance  we  lately  made  at  Vaux- 
hall,  was  one  of  the  choice  spirits  of  the  little  town,  when  he  visited  it 
during  his  vacations,  and  enlivened  the  tables  of  his  friends  there  by 
the  wit  of  Bartholomew's  and  the  gossip  of  the  fashionable  London 
circles  which  he  frequented. 

Mr.  Hobnell,  the  young  gentleman  whom  Pen  had  thrashed,  in 
consequence  of  the  quarrel  in  the  Fotheringay  affair,  was,  whilst  a 
pupil  at  the  Grammar  School  at  Clavering,  made  very  welcome  at  the 
tea-table  of  Mrs.  Huxter,  Samuel's  mother,  and  was  free  of  the  Burger)', 
where  he  knew  the  way  to  the  tamarind-pots,  and  could  scent  his 
pocket-handkerchief  with  rose-water.  And  it  was  at  this  period  of  his 
life  that  he  formed  an  attachment  for  Miss  Sophy  Huxter,  whom,  on 
his  father's  demise,  he  married,  and  took  home  to  his  house  of  the 
Warren,  a  few  miles  from  Clavering. 

The  family  had  possessed  and  cultivated  an  estate  there  for  many 
years,  as  yeomen  and  farmers.  Mr.  Hobnell's  father  pulled  down  the 
old  farm-house ;  built  a  flaring  new  whitewashed  mansion,  with  capa- 
cious stables :  and  a  piano  in  the  drawing-room ;  kept  a  pack  of 
harriers;  and  assumed  the  title  of  Squire  Hobnell.  When  he  died, 
and  his  son  reigned  in  his  stead,  the  family  might  be  fairly  considered 
to  be  established  as  county  gentry.  And  Sam  Huxter,  at  London,  did 
no  great  wrong  in  boasting  about  his  brother-in-law's  place,  his  hounds, 
horses,  and  hospitality,  to  his  admiring  comrades  at  Bartholomew's. 
Every  year,  at  a  time  commonly  when  Mrs.  Hobnell  could  not  leave 
the  increasing  duties  of  her  nursery,  Hobnell  came  up  to  London  for 
a  lark,  had  rooms  at  the  Tavistock,  and  he  and  Sam  indulged  in  the 
pleasures  of  the  town  together.  Ascot,  the  theatres,  Vauxhall,  and  the 
convivial  taverns  in  the  joyous  neighbourhood  of  Covent  Garden,  were 
visited  by  the  vivacious  squire,  in  company  with  his  learned  brother. 


484  PENDENNIS. 

When  he  was  in  London,  as  he  said,  he  liked  to  do  as  London  does, 
and  to  "  go  it  a  bit,"  and  when  he  returned  to  the  west,  he  took  a  new 
bonnet  and  shawl  to  Mrs.  Hobnell,  and  relinquished,  for  country  sports 
and  occupations  during  the  next  eleven  months,  the  elegant  amuse- 
ments of  London  life. 

Sam  Huxter  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  his  relative,  and 
supplied  him  with  choice  news  of  the  metropolis,  in  return  for  the 
baskets  of  hares,  partridges,  and  clouted  cream  which  the  squire  and 
his  good-natured  wife  forwarded  to  Sam.  A  youth  more  brilliant  and 
distinguished  they  did  not  know.  He  was  the  life  and  soul  of  their 
house,  when  he  made  his  appearance  in  his  native  place.  His  songs, 
jokes,  and  fun  kept  the  Warren  in  a  roar.  He  had  saved  their  eldest 
darling's  life,  by  taking  a  fish-bone  out  of  her  throat :  in  fine,  he  was 
the  delight  of  their  circle. 

As  ill-luck  would  have  it,  Pen  again  fell  in  with  Mr.  Hu>*'ir,  only 
three  days  after  the  rencontre  at  Vauxhall.  Faithful  to  his  '.ow,  he 
had  not  been  to  see  little  Fanny.  He  was  trj-ing  to  drive  her  from  his 
mind  by  occupation,  or  other  mental  excitement.  He  laboured,  though 
not  to  much  profit,  incessantly  in  his  rooms ;  and,  in  his  capacity  of 
critic  for  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette."  made  woeful  and  savage  onslaught 
on  a  poem  and  a  romance  which  came  before  him  for  judgment. 
These  authors  slain,  he  went  to  dine  alone  at  the  lonely  club  of  the 
Polyanthus,  where  the  vast  solitudes  frightened  him,  and  made  him 
only  the  more  moody.  He  had  been  to  more  theatres  for  relaxation. 
The  whole  house  was  roaring  with  laughter  and  applause,  and  he  saw 
only  an  ignoble  farce  that  made  him  sad.  It  would  have  damped  the 
spirits  of  the  buffoon  on  the  stage  to  have  seen  Pen's  dismal  face. 
He  hardly  knew  what  was  happening  ;  the  scene  and  the  drama  passed 
before  him  like  a  dream  or  a  fever.  Then  he  thought  he  would  go  to 
the  Back-Kitchen,  his  old  haunt  with  Warrington — he  was  not  a  bit 
sleepy  yet.  The  day  before  he  had  walked  twenty  miles  in  search 
after  rest,  over  Hampstead  Common  and  Hendon  lanes,  and  had  got 
no  sleep  at  night.  He  would  go  to  the  Back-Kitchen.  It  was  a  sort 
of  comfort  to  him  to  think  he  should  see  Bows.  Bows  was  there,  very 
calm,  presiding  at  the  old  piano.  Some  tremendous  comic  songs  were 
sung,  which  made  the  room  crack  with  laughter.  How  strange  they 
seemed  to  Pen!  He  could  only  see  Bows.  In  an  extinct  volcano, 
such  as  he  boasted  that  his  breast  was,  it  was  wonderful  how  he  should 
feel  such  a  flame !  Two  days'  indulgence  had  kindled  it ;  two  days' 
abstinence  had  set  it  burning  in  fury.  So,  musing  upon  this,  and 
drinking  down  one  glass  after  another,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
Arthurs  eyes  lighted  upon  Mr.  Huxter,  who  had  been  to  the  theatre, 
like  himself,  and,  with  two  or  three  comrades,  now  entered  the  room. 
Huxter  whispered  to  his  companions,  greatly  to  Pen's   annoyance. 


PENDEA'NJS.  485 

Arthur  felt  that  the  other  was  talking  about  him.  Huxter  then  worked 
through  the  room,  followed  by  his  friends,  and  came  and  took  a  place 
opposite  to  Pen,  nodding  familiarly  to  him,  and  holding  him  out  a 
dirty  hand  to  shake. 

Pen  shook  hands  with  his  fellow-townsman.  He  thought  he  had 
been  needlessly  savage  to  him  on  the  last  night  when  they  had  met. 
As  for  Huxter,  perfectly  at  good-humour  with  himself  and  the  world, 
it  never  entered  his  mind  that  he  could  be  disagreeable  to  anybody ; 
and  the  little  dispute,  or  "  chaff,"  as  he  styled  it,  of  Vauxhall,  was  a 
trifle  which  he  did  not  in  the  least  regard. 

The  disciple  of  Galen  having  called  for  "  four  stouts,"  with  which 
he  and  his  party  refreshed  themselves,  began  to  think  what  would  be 
the  most  amusing  topic  of  conversation  with  Pen,  and  hit  upon  that 
precise  one  which  was  most  painful  to  our  young  gentleman. 

"Jolly  night  at  Vauxhall— wasn't  it .'"' he  said,  and  winked  in  a 
very  knowing  way. 

"  I'm  glad  you  liked  it,"  poor  Pen  said,  groaning  in  spirit. 

"  I  was  dev'lish  cut — uncommon — been  dining  with  some  chaps  at 
Greenwich.  That  was  a  pretty  bit  of  muslin  hanging  on  your  arm — 
who  was  she  ?  "  asked  the  fascinating  student. 

The  question  was  too  much  for  Arthur.  "  Have  I  asked  you  any 
questions  about  yourself,  Mr.  Huxter.''"  he  said. 

"  I  didn't  mean  any  offence^beg  pardon — hang  it  !  you  cut  up 
quite  savage,"  said  Pen's  astonished  interlocutor. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  took  place  between  us  the  other  night  ?" 
Pen  asked,  with  gathering  wrath.  "  You  forget .''  Very  probably. 
You  were  tipsy,  as  you  observed  just  now,  and  very  rude." 

"  Hang  it,  sir,  I  asked  your  pardon,"  Huxter  said,  looking  red. 

"  You  did,  certainly,  and  it  was  granted  with  all  my  heart,  I  am 
sure.  But  if  you  recollect  I  begged  that  you  would  have  the  goodness 
to  omit  me  from  the  list  of  your  acquaintance  for  the  future .''  and  when 
we  met  in  public  that  you  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  recognise  mc. 
Will  you  please  to  remember  this  hereafter .?  and,  as  the  song  is 
beginning,  permit  me  to  leave  you  to  the  unrestrained  enjoyment  of 
the  music." 

He  took  his  hat,  and  making  a  bow  to  the  amazed  Mr.  Huxter, 
left  the  table,  as  Huxter's  comrades,  after  a  pause  of  wonder,  set  up 
such  a  roar  of  laughter  at  Huxter  as  called  for  the  intervention  of  tlie 
president  of  the  room ;  who  bawled  out,  "  Silence,  gentlemen  ;  da 
have  silence  for  the  Body  Snatcher ! "  which  popular  song  began  as 
Pen  left  the  Back-Kitchen.  He  flattered  himself  that  he  had  com- 
manded his  temper  perfectly.  He  rather  wished  that  Huxter  had 
been  pugnacious.  He  would  have  liked  to  fight  him  or  somebody. 
He  went  home.     The  day's  work,  the  dinner,  the  play,  the  whisky 


48,6  PF.iXDENNIS. 

and  water,  the  quarrel — nothing  soothed  him.  He  slept  no  better 
than  on  the  previous  night. 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Mr.  Sam  Huxter  wrote  home  a  letter  to 
Mr.  Hobnell  in  the  country,  of  which  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  formed 
the  principal  subject.  Sam  described  Arthur's  pursuits  in  London, 
and  his  confounded  insolence  of  behaviour  to  his  old  friends  from 
home.  He  said  he  was  an  abandoned  criminal,  a  regular  Don  Juan, 
a  fellow  who,  when  he  did  come  into  the  country,  ought  to  be  kept  out 
of  hoiust  peoples  houses.  He  had  seen  him  at  Vauxhall,  dancing 
with  an  innocent  girl  in  the  lower  ranks  of  life,  of  whom  he  was 
making  a  victim.  He  had  found  out  from  an  Irish  gentleman  (formerly 
in  the  army),  who  frequented  a  club  of  which  he,  Huxter,  was  member, 
who  the  girl  was,  on  whom  this  conceited  humbitg  was  practising  his 
infernal  arts ;  and  he  thought  he  should  warn  her  father,  &c.  Sec. — 
The  letter  then  touched  on  general  news,  conveyed  the  writer's  thanks 
for  the  last  parcel  and  the  rabbits,  and  hinted  his  extreme  readiness 
for  further  favours. 

About  once  a  year,  as  we  have  stated,  there  was  occasion  for  a 
christening  at  the  Warren,  and  it  happened  that  this  ceremony  took 
place  a  day  after  Hobnell  had  received  the  letter  of  his  brother-in-law 
in  town.  The  infant  (a  darling  little  girl)  was  christened  Mira- 
Lucretia,  after  its  two  godmothers,  Miss  Portman  and  Mrs.  Pybus  of 
Clavering,  and  as  of  course  Hobnell  had  communicated  Sam's  letter 
to  his  wife,  Mrs.  Hobnell  imparted  its  horrid  contents  to  her  two 
gossips.  A  pretty  story  it  was,  and  prettily  it  was  told  throughout 
Clavering  in  the  course  of  that  day. 

Mira  did  not — she  was  too  much  shocked  to  do  so — speak  on  the 
matter  to  her  mamma,  but  Mrs.  Pybus  had  no  such  feelings  of  reserve. 
She  talked  over  the  matter,  not  only  with  Mrs.  Portman,  but  with 
Mr.  and  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Simcoe,  with  Mrs.  Glanders,  her 
daughters  being  to  that  end  ordered  out  of  the  room,  with  Madame 
Fribsby,  and,  in  a  word,  with  the  whole  of  the  Clavering  society. 
Madame  Fribsby,  looking  furtively  up  at  her  picture  of  the  Dragoon, 
and  inwards  into  her  own  wounded  memor}-,  said  that  men  would  be 
men,  and  as  long  as  they  were  men  would  be  deceivers ;  and  she 
pensively  quoted  some  lines  from  Marmion,  requesting  to  know  where 
deceiving  lovers  should  rest  ?  Mrs.  Pybus  had  no  words  of  hatred, 
horror,  contempt,  strong  enough  for  a  villain  who  could  be  capable 
of  conduct  so  base.  This  was  what  came  of  early  indulgence,  and 
insolence,  and  extravagance,  and  aristocratic  airs  (it  is  certain  that 
Pen  had  refused  to  drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Pybus),  and  attending  the 
corrupt  and  horrid  parties  in  the  dreadful  modern  Babylon  I  Mrs.  Port- 
man  was  afraid  that  she  must  acknowledge  that  the  mother's  fatal 
partiality  had  spoiled  this  boy,  that  his  literar\'  successes  had  turned 


PENDENNIS.  487 

his  head,  and  his  horrid  passions  had  made  him  forget  the  principles 
which  Doctor  Portman  had  instilled  into  him  in  early  life.  Glanders, 
the  atrocious  Captain  of  Dragoons,  when  informed  of  the  occurrence 
by  Mrs.  Glanders,  whistled  and  made  jocular  allusions  to  it  at  dinner- 
time :  on  which  Mrs.  Glanders  called  him  a  brute,  and  ordered  the 
girls  again  out  of  the  room,  as  the  horrid  Captain  burst  out  laughing. 
Mr.  Simcoe  was  calm  under  the  intelligence ;  but  rather  pleased  than 
otherwise ;  it  only  served  to  confirm  the  opinion  which  he  had  always 
had  of  that  wretched  young  man :  not  that  he  knew  anything  about 
him — not  that  he  had  read  one  line  of  his  dangerous  and  poisonous 
works ;  Heaven  forbid  that  he  should !  but  what  could  be  expected 
from  such  a  youth,  and  such  frightful,  such  lamentable,  such  deplorable 
want  of  seriousness  ?  Pen  formed  the  subject  for  a  second  sermon  at 
the  Clavering  chapel  of  ease:  where  the  dangers  of  London,  and 
the  crime  of  reading  or  writing  novels,  were  pointed  out  on  a  Sunday 
evening,  to  a  large  and  warm  congregation.  They  did  not  wait  to 
hear  whether  he  was  guilty  or  not.  They  took  his  wickedness  for 
granted :  and  with  these  admirable  moralists,  it  was  who  should  fling 
the  stone  at  poor  Pen. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Pendennis,  alone  and  almost  fainting  with 
emotion  and  fatigue,  walked  or  rather  ran  to  Dr.  Portman's  house,  to 
consult  the  good  Doctor.  She  had  had  an  anonymous  letter  ; — some 
Christian  had  thought  it  his  or  her  duty  to  stab  the  good  soul  who 
had  never  done  mortal  a  wrong — an  anonymous  letter  with  references 
to  Scripture,  pointing  out  the  doom  of  such  sinners,  and  a  detailed 
account  of  Pen's  crime.  She  was  in  a  state  of  terror  and  excitement 
pitiable  to  witness.  Two  or  three  hours  of  this  pain  had  aged  her 
already.  In  her  first  moment  of  agitation  she  had  dropped  the  letter, 
and  Laura  had  read  it.  Laura  blushed  when  she  read  it  ;  her  whole 
frame  trembled,  but  it  was  with  anger.  "  The  cowards,"  she  said. — 
"  It  isn't  true.— No,  mother,  it  isn't  true." 

"  It  is  true,  and  you've  done  it,  Laura,"  cried  out  Helen  fiercely. 
"  Why  did  you  refuse  him  when  he  asked  you  .''  Why  did  you  break 
my  heart  and  refuse  him  ?  It  is  you  who  led  him  into  crime.  It  is 
you  who  flung  him  into  the  arms  of  this — this  woman.— Don't  speak 
to  me. — Don't  answer  me.  I  will  never  forgive  you,  never  !  Martha, 
bring  me  my  bonnet  and  shawl.  I'll  go  out.  I  wont't  have  you  come 
with  me. — Go  away.  Leave  me,  cruel  girl  ;  why  have  you  brought 
this  shame  on  me  ? "  And  bidding  her  daughter  and  her  servants 
keep  away  from  her,  she  ran  down  the  road  to  Clavering, 

Doctor  Portman,  glancing  over  the  letter,  thought  he  knew  the 
handwriting,  and,  of  course,  was  already  acquainted  with  the  charge 
made  against  poor  Pen.  Against  his  own  conscience,  perhaps  (for 
the  worthy   Doctor,   like   most   of   us,   had   a   considerable   natural 


488  PENDENNIS. 

aptitude  for  receiving  any  report  unfavourable  to  his  neighbours),  he 
strove  to  console  Helen  ;  he  pointed  out  that  the  slander  came  from 
an  anonymous  quarter,  and  therefore  must  be  the  work  of  a  rascal  ; 
that  the  charge  might  not  be  true — was  not  true,  most  likely — at  least, 
that  Pen  must  be  heard  before  he  was  condemned  ;  that  the  son  of 
such  a  mother  was  not  likely  to  commit  such  a  crime,  &c.  &c. 

Helen  at  once  saw  through  his  feint  of  objection  and  denial. 
"  You  think  he  has  done  it,"  she  said, — "  you  know  you  think  he  has 
done  it.  Oh,  why  did  I  ever  leave  him,  Doctor  Portman,  or  suffer 
him  away  from  me  ?  But  he  can't  be  dishonest — pray  God,  not 
dishonest — you  don't  think  that,  do  you  ?  Remember  his  conduct 
about  that  other— person — how  madly  he  was  attached  to  her.  He 
was  an  honest  boy  then — he  is  now.  And  I  thank  God — yes,  I  fall 
down  on  my  knees  and  thank  God  he  paid  Laura.  You  said  he  was 
good — you  did  yourself.  And  now,  if  this  woman  loves  him — and 
you  know  they  must — if  he  has  taken  her  from  her  home,  or  she 
tempted  him,  which  is  most  likely— why  still,  she  must  be  his  wife 
and  my  daughter.  And  he  must  leave  the  dreadful  world  and  come 
back  to  me — to  his  mother,  Dr.  Portman.  Let  us  go  away  and  bring 
him  back — yes — bring  him  back — and  there  shall  be  joy  for  the — 
the  sinner  that  repenteth.  Let  us  go  now,  directly,  dear  friend — 
this  very — " 

Helen  could  say  no  more.  She  fell  back  and  fainted.  She  was 
carried  to  a  bed  in  the  house  of  the  pitying  Doctor,  and  the  surgeon 
was  called  to  attend  her.  She  lay  all  night  in  an  alarming  state. 
Laura  came  to  her,  or  to  the  rector)'  rather  ;  for  she  would  not  see 
Laura.  And  Doctor  Portman,  still  beseeching  her  to  be  tranquil, 
and  growing  bolder  and  more  confident  of  Arthur's  innocence  as 
he  witnessed  the  terrible  grief  of  the  poor  mother,  wrote  a  letter  to 
Pen  warning  him  of  the  rumours  that  were  against  him,  and  earnestly 
praying  that  he  would  break  off  and  repent  of  a  connexion  so  fatal  to 
his  best  interests  and  his  soul's  welfare. 

And  Laura  ? — was  her  heart  not  w-rung  by  the  thought  of  Arthur's 
crime  and  Ellen's  estrangement  ?  Was  it  not  a  bitter  blow  for  the 
innocent  girl  to  think  that  at  one  stroke  she  should  lose  all  the  love 
which  she  cared  for  in  the  world  ? 


PENDENNIS.  489 


CHAPTER    LI. 

WHICH    HAD   VERY   NEARLY   BEEN   THE   LAST  OF   THE   STORY. 

DOCTOR  PORTMAN'S  letter  was  sent  ofif  to  its  destination  in 
London,  and  the  worthy  clergyman  endeavoured  to  soothe 
down  Mrs.  Pendennis  into  some  state  of  composure  until  an  answer 
should  arrive  which  the  Doctor  tried  to  think,  or  at  any  rate,  persisted 
in  saying,  would  be  satisfactory  as  regarded  the  morality  of  Mr.  Pen. 
At  least  Helen's  wish  of  moving  upon  London  and  appearing  in 
person  to  warn  her  son  of  his  wickedness,  was  impracticable  for  a  day 
or  two.  The  apothecary  forbade  her  moving  even  so  far  as  Fairoaks 
for  the  first  day,  and  it  was  not  until  the  subsequent  morning  that  she 
found  herself  again  back  on  her  sofa  at  home,  with  the  faithful,  though 
silent  Laura,  nursing  at  her  side. 

Unluckily  for  himself  and  all  parties.  Pen  never  read  that  homily 
which  Doctor  Portman  addressed  to  him,  until  many  weeks  after  the 
epistle  had  been  composed ;  and  day  after  day  the  widow  waited  for 
her  son's  reply  to  the  charges  against  him ;  her  own  illness  inareasiug 
with  every  day's  delay.  It  was  a  hard  task  for  Laura  to  bear  the 
anxiety;  to  witness  her  dearest  friend's  suffering;  worst  of  all,  to 
support  Helen's  estrangement,  and  the  pain  caused  to  her  by  that 
averted  affection.  But  it  was  the  custom  of  this  young  lady,  to  the 
utmost  of  her  power,  and  by  means  of  that  gracious  assistance  which 
Heaven  awarded  to  her  pure  and  constant  prayers,  to  do  her  duty. 
And  as  that  duty  was  performed  quite  noiselessly, — while  the  suppli- 
cations, which  endowed  her  with  the  requisite  strength  for  fulfilling  it, 
also  took  place  in  her  own  chamber,  away  from  all  mortal  sight, — we, 
too,  must  be  perforce  silent  about  these  virtues  of  hers,  which  no  more 
bear  public  talking  about,  than  a  flower  will  bear  to  bloom  in  a  ball- 
room. This  only  we  will  say — that  a  good  woman  is  the  loveliest 
flower  that  blooms  under  heaven ;  and  that  we  look  with  love  and 
wonder  upon  its  silent  grace,  its  pure  fragrance,  its  delicate  bloom  of 
beauty.  Sweet  and  beautiful ! — the  fairest  and  the  most  spotless ! — is 
it  not  a  pity  to  see  them  bowed  down  or  devoured  by  Grief  or  Death 
inexorable — wasting  in  disease — pining  with  long  pain— or  cut  off  by 
sudden  fate  in  their  prime  ?  We  may  deserve  grief — but  why  should 
these  be  unhappy? — except  that  we  know  that  Heaven  chastens  those 


490  PENDENNIS. 

whom  it  loves  best ;  being  pleased,  by  repeated  trials,  to  make  these 
pure  spirits  more  pure. 

So  Pen  never  got  the  letter,  although  it  was  duly  posted  and  faith- 
fully discharged  by  the  postman  into  his  letter-box  in  Lamb  Court,  and 
thence  carried  by  the  laundress  to  his  writing-table  with  the  rest  of  his 
lordship's  correspondence. 

Those  kind  readers  who  have  watched  Mr.  Arthur's  career  hitherto, 
and  have  made,  as  they  naturally  would  do,  observations  upon  the 
moral  chai-acter  and  peculiarities  of  their  acquaintance,  have  probably 
discovered  by  this  time  what  was  the  prevailing  fault  in  Mr.  Pen's 
disposition,  and  who  was  that  greatest  enemy,  artfully  indicated  in 
the  title-page,  with  whom  he  had  to  contend.  Not  a  few  of  us,  my 
beloved  public,  have  the  very  same  rascal  to  contend  with :  a  scoundrel 
who  takes  every  opportunity  of  bringing  us  into  mischief,  of  plunging 
us  into  quarrels,  of  leading  us  into  idleness  and  unprofitable  company, 
and  what  not.  In  a  word,  Pen's  greatest  enemy  was  himself:  and  as 
he  had  been  pampering,  and  coaxing,  and  indulging  that  individual  all 
his  life,  the  rogue  grew  insolent,  as  all  spoiled  servants  will  be ;  and  at 
the  slightest  attempt  to  coerce  him,  or  make  him  do  that  which  was 
unpleasant  to  him,  became  frantically  rude  and  unruly.  A  person  who 
is  used  to  making  sacrifices — Laura,  for  instance,  who  had  got  such  a 
habit  of  giving  up  her  own  pleasure  for  others — can  do  the  business 
quite  easily ;  but  Pen,  unaccustomed  as  he  was  to  any  sort  of  self- 
denial,  suffered  moodily  when  called  on  to  pay  his  share,  and  savagely 
grumbled  at  being  obliged  to  forego  anything  he  liked. 

He  had  resolved  in  his  mighty  mind,  then,  that  he  would  not  see 
Fanny;  and  he  wouldn't.  He  tried  to  drive  the  thoughts  of  that 
fascinating  little  person  out  of  his  head,  by  constant  occupation,  by 
exercise,  by  dissipation  and  society.  He  worked  then  too  much:  he 
walked  and  rode  too  much :  he  ate,  drank,  and  smoked  too  much ; 
nor  could  all  the  cigars  and  the  punch  of  which  he  partook  drive 
little  Fanny's  image  out  of  his  inflamed  brain ;  and  at  the  end  of  a 
week  of  this  discipline  and  self-denial  our  young  gentleman  was  in  bed 
with  a  fever.  Let  the  reader  who  has  never  had  a  fever  in  chambers 
pity  the  wretch  who  is  bound  to  undergo  that  calamity. 

A  committee  of  marriageable  ladies,  or  of  any  Christian  persons 
interested  in  the  propagation  of  the  domestic  virtues,  should  employ 
a  Cruikshank  or  a  Leech,  or  some  other  kindly  expositor  of  the  follies 
of  the  day,  to  make  a  series  of  Designs  representing  the  horrors  of  a 
bachelor's  life  in  chambers,  and  leading  the  beholder  to  think  of 
better  things  and  a  more  wholesome  condition.  What  can  be  more 
uncomfortable  than  the  bachelor's  lonely  breakfast  ? — with  the  black 
kettle  in  the  dreary  fire  in  Midsummer;  or,  worse  still,  with  the  fire 
gone  out  at  Christmas,  half  an  hour  after  the  laundress  has  quitted 


PENDENNIS.  491 

the  sitting-room?  Into  this  sohtude  the  owner  enters  shivering,  and 
has  to  commence  his  day  by  hunting  for  coals  and  wood  :  and  before 
he  begins  the  work  of  a  student,  has  to  discharge  the  duties  of  a 
housemaid,  vice  Mrs.  Flanagan,  who  is  absent  without  leave.  Or, 
again,  what  can  form  a  finer  subject  for  the  classical  designer  than 
the  bachelor's  shirt — that  garment  which  he  wants  to  assume  just  at 
dinner-time,  and  which  he  finds  without  any  buttons  to  fasten  it  ? 
Then  there  is  the  bachelor's  return  to  chambers,  after  a  merry  Christ- 
mas holiday,  spent  in  a  cozy  country-house,  full  of  pretty  faces  and 
kind  welcomes  and  regrets.  He  leaves  his  portmanteau  at  the  Barber's 
in  the  Court :  he  lights  his  dismal  old  candle  at  the  sputtering  little 
lamp  on  the  stair :  he  enters  the  blank  familiar  room,  where  the  only 
tokens  to  greet  him,  that  show  any  interest  in  his  personal  welfare,  are 
the  Christmas  bills,  which  are  lying  in  wait  for  him,  amiably  spread 
out  on  his  reading-table.  Add  to  these  scenes  an  appalling  picture  of 
the  bachelor's  illness,  and  the  rents  in  the  Temple  will  begin  to  fall 
from  the  day  of  the  publication  of  the  dismal  diorama.  To  be  well  in 
chambers  is  melancholy,  and  lonely  and  selfish  enough ;  but  to  be  ill 
in  chambers — to  pass  nights  of  pain  and  watchfulness — to  long  for  the 
morning  and  the  laundress — to  serve  yourself  your  own  medicine  by 
your  own  watch — to  have  no  other  companion  for  long  hours  but  your 
own  sickening  fancies  and  fevered  thoughts :  no  kind  hand  to  give 
you  drink  if  you  are  thirsty,  or  to  smoothe  the  hot  pillow  that  crumples 
under  you,^ — this,  indeed,  is  a  fate  so  dismal  and  tragic,  that  we  shall 
not  enlarge  upon  its  horrors ;  and  shall  only  heartily  pity  those 
bachelors   in  the  Temple  who  brave  it   every  day. 

This  lot  befell  Arthur  Pendennis  after  the  various  excesses  which 
we  have  mentioned,  and  to  which  he  had  subjected  his  unfortunate 
brains.  One  night  he  went  to  bed  ill,  and  the  next  day  awoke  worse. 
His  only  visitor  that  day,  besides  the  laundress,  was  the  Printer's 
Devil,  from  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette "  office,  whom  the  writer  en- 
deavoured, as  best  he  could,  to  satisfy.  His  exertions  to  complete 
his  work  rendered  his  fever  the  greater :  he  could  only  furnish  a  part 
of  the  quantity  of  "  copy "  usually  supplied  by  him ;  and  Shandon 
being  absent,  and  Warrington  not  in  London  to  give  a  help,  the 
political  and  editorial  columns  of  the  "Gazette"  looked  very  blank 
indeed ;  nor  did  the  sub-editor  know  how  to  fill  them. 

Mr.  Finucane  rushed  up  to  Pen's  chambers,  and  found  that  gentle- 
man so  exceedingly  unwell  that  the  good-natured  Irishman  set  to 
work  to  supply  his  place,  if  possible,  and  produced  a  series  of  political 
and  critical  compositions,  such  as  no  doubt  greatly  edified  the  readers 
of  the  periodical  in  which  he  and  Pen  were  concerned.  Allusions  to 
the  greatness  of  Ireland,  and  the  genius  and  virtue  of  the  inhabitants 
of  that  injured  country,  flowed  magnificently  from  Finucane's  pen ; 


492 


PENDENNIS. 


and  Shandon,  the  Chief  of  the  paper,  who  was  enjoying  himself  placidly 
at  Boulogne-sur-Mer,  looking  over  the  columns  of  the  journal,  which 
was  forwarded  to  him,  instantly  recognised  the  hand  of  the  great  Sub- 
editor, and  said,  laughing,  as  he  flung  over  the  paper  to  his  wife, 
"  Look  here,  Mary,  my  dear,  here  is  Jack  at  work  again."  Indeed, 
Jack  was  a  warm  friend  and  a  gallant  partisan,  and  when  he  had  the 
pen  in  hand  seldom  let  slip  an  opportunity  of  letting  the  world  know 
that  Rafferty  was  the  greatest  painter  in  Europe,  and  wondering  at 
the  petty  jealousy  of  the  Academy,  which  refused  to  make  him  an 
R.A. :  of  stating  that  it  was  generally  reported  at  the  West  End  that 
Mr.  Rooney,  M.P.,  was  appointed  Governor  of  Barataria :  or  of  intro- 
ducing into  the  subject  in  hand,  whatever  it  might  be,  a  compliment 
to  the  Round  Towers  or  the  Giant's  Causeway.  And  besides  doing 
Pen's  work  for  him,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  his  kind-hearted  comrade 
offered  to  forego  his  Saturday's  and  Sunday's  holiday,  and  pass  those 
days  of  holiday  and  rest  as  nurse-tender  to  Arthur,  who,  however, 
insisted  that  the  other  should  not  forego  his  pleasure,  and  thankfully 
assured  him  that  he  could  bear  best  his  malady  alone. 

Taking  his  supper  at  the  Back- Kitchen  on  the  Friday  night,  after 
having  achieved  the  work  of  the  paper,  Finucane  informed  Captain 
Costigan  of  the  illness  of  their  young  friend  in  the  Temple ;  and 
remembering  the  fact  two  days  afterwards,  the  Captain  went  to  Lamb 
Court,  and  paid  a  visit  to  the  invalid  on  Sunday  afternoon.  He  found 
Mrs.  Flanagan,  the  laundress,  in  tears  in  the  sitting-room,  and  got  a 
bad  report  of  the  poor  dear  young  gentleman  within.  Pen's  condition 
had  so  much  alarmed  her,  that  she  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  the 
stimulus  of  brandy  to  enable  her  to  support  the  grief  which  his  illness 
occasioned.  As  she  hung  about  his  bed,  and  endeavoured  to  minister 
to  him,  her  attentions  became  intolerable  to  the  invalid,  and  he 
begged  her  peevishly  not  to  come  near  him.  Hence  the  laundress's 
tears  and  redoubled  grief,  and  renewed  application  to  the  bottle, 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  use  as  an  anodyne.  The  Captain  rated 
the  woman  soundly  for  her  intemperance,  and  pointed  out  to  her  the 
fatal  consequences  which  must  ensue  if  she  persisted  in  her  imprudent 
courses. 

Pen,  who  was  by  this  time  in  a  \cr\  fevered  state,  was  yet  greatly 
pleased  to  receive  Costigan's  visit.  He  heard  the  well-known  voice 
in  his  sitting-room,  as  he  lay  in  the  bed-room  within,  and  called  the 
Captain  eagerly  to  him,  and  thanked  him  for  coming,  and  begged  him 
to  take  a  chair  and  talk  to  him.  The  Captain  felt  the  young  man"s 
pulse  wnth  great  gravity — (his  own  tremulous  and  clammy  hand 
growing  steady  for  the  instant  while  his  finger  pressed  Arthurs 
throbbing  vein) — the  pulse  was  beating  very  fiercely — Pen's  face  was 
haggard  and  hot — his  eyes  were  bloodshot  and  gloom\- ;  his  "  bird,"' 


PENDENNIS.  493 

as  the  Captain  pronounced  the  word,  afterwards  giving  a  description 
of  his  condition,  had  not  been  shaved  for  nearly  a  week.  Pen  made 
his  visitor  sit  down,  and,  tossing  and  turning  in  his  comfortless  bed, 
began  to  try  and  talk  to  the  Captain  in  a  lively  manner  about  the 
!  Back-Kitchen,  about  Vauxhall,  and  when  they  should  go  again,  and 
I  about  Fanny — how  was  little  Fanny  ? 

Indeed,  how  was  she?  We  know  how  she  went  home  very  sadly 
on  the  previous  Sunday  evening,  after  she  had  seen  Arthur  light  his 
lamp  in  his  chambers,  whilst  he  was  having  his  interview  with  Bows. 
Bows  came  back  to  his  own  rooms  presently,  passing  by  the  Lodge 
door,  and  looking  into  Mrs.  Bolton's,  according  to  his  word,  as  he 
passed,  but  with  a  very  melancholy  face.  She  had  another  weary 
night  that  night.  Her  restlessness  wakened  her  little  bedfellows  more 
than  once.  She  daren't  read  more  of  "  Walter  Lorraine :  "  father  was 
at  home  and  would  suffer  no  hght.  She  kept  the  book  under  her 
pillow,  and  felt  for  it  in  the  night.  She  had  only  just  got  to  sleep,  when 
the  children  began  to  stir  with  the  morning,  almost  as  early  as  the 
birds.  Though  she  was  wevy  angry  with  Bows,  she  went  to  his  room  at 
her  accustomed  hour  in  the  day,  and  there  the  good-hearted  musician 
began  to  talk  to  her. 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Pendennis  last  night,  Fanny,"  he  said. 

"  Did  you  ?  I  thought  you  did,"  Fanny  answered,  looking  fiercely 
at  the  melancholy  old  gentleman. 

"  Pve  been  fond  of  you  ever  since  we  came  to  live  in  this  place,"  he 
continued.  "  You  were  a  child  when  I  came ;  and  you  used  to  like  me, 
Fanny,  until  three  or  four  days  ago :  until  you  saw  this  gentleman." 

"  And  now,  I  suppose,  you  are  going  to  say  ill  of  him,"  said  Fanny, 
"  Do,  Mr.  Bows— that  will  make  me  like  you  better." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  do  no  such  thing,"  Bows  answered  ;  "  I  think  he  is 
a  very  good  and  honest  young  man." 

"  Indeed !  you  know  that  if  you  said  a  word  against  him,  I  would 
never  speak  a  word  to  you  again — never!"  cried  Miss  Fanny;  and 
clenched  her  little  hand,  and  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  Bows 
noted,  watched,  and  followed  the  ardent  little  creature  with  admira- 
tion and  gloomy  sympathy.  Her  cheeks  flushed,  her  frame  trembled ; 
her  eyes  beamed  love,  anger,  defiance.  "  You  would  like  to  speak  ill 
of  him,"  she  said  ;  "  but  you  daren't — you  know  you  daren't !  " 

"  I  knew  him  many  years  since,"  Bows  continued ;  "  when  he  was 
almost  as  young  as  you  are,  and  he  had  a  romantic  attachment  for  our 
friend  the  Captain's  daughter — Lady  Mirabel  that  is  now." 

Fanny  laughed.  "  I  suppose  there  was  other  people,  too,  that  had 
romantic  attachments  for  Miss  Costigan,"  she  said :  "  I  don't  want  to 
hear  about  'em." 

"He  wanted  to  marry  her;  but  their  ages  were  quite  dispropor- 


494  PENDENlYIS. 

tionate  :  and  their  rank  in  life.  She  would  not  have  him  because  he 
had  no  money.  She  acted  very  wisely  in  refusing  him;  for  the  two 
would  have  been  very  unhappy,  and  she  wasn't  a  fit  person  to  go  and 
live  with  his  family,  or  to  make  his  home  comfortable.  I\Ir.  Pendennis 
has  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  and  must  marry  a  lady  of  his  own 
rank.  A  woman  who  loves  a  man  will  not  ruin  his  prospects,  cause 
him  to  quarrel  with  his  family,  and  lead  him  into  poverty  and  misery 
for  her  gratification.  An  honest  girl  won't  do  that,  for  her  own  sake, 
or  for  the  man's." 

Fanny's  emotion,  which  but  now  had  been  that  of  defiance  and 
anger,  here  turned  to  dismay  and  supplication.  "  What  do  I  know 
about  marrj'ing.  Bows  ? "  she  said.  "  When  was  there  any  talk  of  it  ? 
What  has  there  been  between  this  young  gentleman  and  me  that's  to 
make  people  speak  so  cruel?  It  was  not  my  doing;  nor  Arthur's — 
Mr.  Pendennis's — that  I  met  him  at  Vauxhall.  It  was  the  Captain 
took  me  and  ma  there.  We  never  thought  of  nothing  wrong,  I'm  sure. 
He  came  and  rescued  us,  and  was  so  ver)-  kind.  Then  he  came  to  call 
and  ask  after  us  :  and  very,  very  good  it  was  of  such  a  grand  gentle- 
man to  be  so  polite  to  humble  folks  like  us  !  And  yesterday  ma  and 
me  just  went  to  walk  in  the  Temple  Gardens,  and — and  " — here  she 
broke  out  with  that  usual  unanswerable  female  argument  of  tears,  and 
cried,  "  Oh !  I  wish  I  was  dead !  I  wish  I  was  laid  in  my  grave ; 
and  had  never,  never  seen  him  !  " 

"  He  said  as  much  himself,  Fanny,"  Bows  said ;  and  Fanny  asked, 
through  her  sobs,  Why,  why  should  he  wish  he  had  never  seen  her .'' 
Had  she  ever  done  him  any  harm  ?  Oh,  she  would  perish  rather  than 
do  him  any  harm.  Whereupon  the  musician  informed  her  of  the  con- 
versation of  the  day  previous,  showed  her  that  Pen  could  not  and  must 
not  think  of  her  as  a  wife  fitting  for  him,  and  that  she,  as  she  valued 
her  honest  reputation,  must  strive  too  to  forget  him.  And  Fanny, 
leaving  the  musician,  convinced,  but  stiil  of  the  same  mind,  and  pro- 
mising that  she  would  avoid  the  danger  which  menaced  her,  went  back 
to  the  Porter's  Lodge,  and  told  her  mother  all.  She  talked  of  her  love 
for  Arthur,  and  bewailed,  in  her  artless  manner,  the  inequality  of  their 
condition,  that  set  barriers  between  them.  "  There's  the  Lady  of 
Lyons,"  Fanny  said.  "Oh,  ma!  how  I  did  love  Mr.  Macready  when 
I  saw  him  do  it ;  and  Pauline,  for  being  faithful  to  poor  Claude,  and 
always  thinking  of  him ;  and  he  coming  back  to  her,  an  officer,  through 
aU  his  dangers  !  And  if  ever}-body  admires  Pauline — and  I'm  sure 
everybody  does,  for  being  so  true  to  a  poor  man — why  should  a  gentle- 
man be  ashamed  of  loving  a  poor  girl .'  Not  that  Mr.  Arthur  loves 
me — Oh,  no,  no  !  I  ain't  worthy  of  him ;  only  a  princess  is  worthy  of 
such  a  gentleman  as  him.  Such  a  poet ! — writing  so  beautifully  and 
looking  so  grand! — I'm  sure  he's  a  nobleman,  and  of  ancient  family, 


PENDENNIS.  49i 

and  kep'  out  of  his  estate.  Perhaps  his  uncle  has  it.  Ah,  if  I  might, 
oh,  how  I'd  serve  him,  and  work  for  him,  and  slave  for  him,  that  I 
would.  I  wouldn't  ask  for  more  than  that,  ma, — just  to  be  allowed  to 
see  him  of  a  morning;  and  sometimes  he'd  say  'How  d'you  do, 
Fanny?'  or,  'God  bless  you,  Fanny!'  as  he  said  on  Sunday.  And 
I'd  work,  and  work ;  and  I'd  sit  up  all  night,  and  read,  and  learn,  and 
make  myself  worthy  of  him.  The  Captain  says  his  mother  lives  in 
the  country,  and  is  a  grand  lady  there.  Oh,  how  I  wish  I  might  go 
and  be  her  servant,  ma !  I  can  do  plenty  of  things,  and  work  very 
neat ;  and — and  sometimes  he'd  come  home,  and  I  should  see  him ! " 

The  girl's  head  fell  on  her  mother's  shoulder  as  she  spoke,  and 
she  gave  way  to  a  plentiful  outpouring  of  girlish  tears,  to  which  the 
matron,  of  course,  joined  her  own.  "  You  mustn't  think  no  more 
of  him,  Fanny,"  she  said.  "  If  he  don't  come  to  you,  he's  a  horrid, 
wicked  man." 

"  Don't  call  him  so,  mother,"  Fanny  replied.  "  He!s  the  best  of 
men,  the  best  and  the  kindest.  Bows  says  he  thinks  he  is  unhappy  at 
leaving  poor  little  Fanny.  It  wasn't  his  fault,  was  it,  that  we  met — 
and  it  ain't  his  that  I  mustn't  see  him  again.  He  says  I  mustn't — 
and  I  mustn't,  mother.  He'll  forget  me,  but  I  shall  never  forget 
him.  No  !  I'll  pray  for  him,  and  love  him  always — until  I  die — and 
I  shall  die,  I  know  I  shall — and  then  my  spirit  will  always  go  and  be 
with  him." 

"  You  forget  your  poor  mother,  Fanny,  and  you'll  break  my  heart 
by  goin'  on  so,"  Mrs.  Bolton  said.  "  Perhaps  you  will  see  him.  I'm 
sure  you'll  see  him.  I'm  sure  he'll  come  to-day.  If  ever  I  saw  a  man 
in  love,  that  man  is  him.  When  Emily  Budd's  young  man  first  came 
about  her,  he  was  sent  away  by  old  Budd,  a  most  respectable  man, 
and  violoncello  in  the  orchestra  at  the  Wells ;  and  his  own  fam'ly 
wouldn't  hear  of  it  neither.  But  he  came  back.  We  all  knew  he 
would.  Emily  always  said  so;  and  he  married  her;  and  this  one  wiU 
come  back  too ;  and  you  mark  a  mother's  words,  and  see  if  he  don't, 
dear." 

At  this  point  of  the  conversation  Mr.  Bolton  entered  the  Lodge  for 
his  evening  meal.  At  the  father's  appearance,  the  talk  between  mother 
and  daughter  ceased  instantly.  Mrs.  Bolton  caressed  and  cajoled  the 
surly  undertaker's  aide-de-camp,  and  said,  "  Lor',  Mr.  B.,  who'd  have 
thought  to  see  you  away  from  the  Club  of  a  Saturday  night !  Fanny, 
dear,  get  your  pa  some  supper.  What  will  you  have,  B.  ?  The  poor 
gurl's  got  a  gathering  in  her  eye,  or  somethink  in  it — I  was  lookin'  at 
it  just  now  as  you  came  in."  And  she  squeezed  her  daughter's  hand 
as  a  signal  of  prudence  and  secrecy ;  and  Fanny's  tears  were  dried  up 
likewise;  and  by  that  wondrous  hypocrisy  and  power  of  disguise 
which  women  practise,  and  with  which  weapons  of  defence  nature 


496  PENDENNIS. 

endows  them,  the  traces  of  her  emotion  disappeared ;  and  she  went 
and  took  her  work,  and  sate  in  the  comer  so  demure  and  quiet,  that 
the  careless  male  parent  never  suspected  that  anything  ailed  her. 

Thus,  as  if  fate  seemed  determined  to  inflame  and  increase  the 
poor  child's  malady  and  passion,  all  circumstances  and  all  parties 
round  about  her  urged  it  on.  Her  mother  encouraged  and  applauded 
it ;  and  the  very  words  which  Bows  used  in  endeavouring  to  repress 
her  flame  only  augmented  this  unlucky  fe\'er.  Pen  was  not  wicked  and 
a  seducer :  Pen  was  high-minded  in  wishing  to  avoid  her.  Pen  loved 
her :  the  good  and  the  great,  the  magnificent  youth,  with  the  chains  of 
gold  aad  the  scented  auburn  hair !  And  so  he  did :  or  so  he  would 
have  loved  her  five  years  back  perhaps,  before  the  world  had  hardened 
the  ardent  and  reckless  boy — before  he  was  ashamed  of  a  foolish  and 
imprudent  passion,  and  strangled  it  as  poor  women  do  their  illicit 
children,  not  on  account  of  their  crime,  but  of  the  shame,  and  from 
dread  that  the.finger  of  the  world  should  point  to  them. 

What  respectable  person  in  the  world  will  not  say  he  was  quite 
right  to  avoid  a  marriage  with  an  ill-educated  person  of  low  degree, 
whose  relations  a  gentleman  could  not  well  acknowledge,  and  whose 
manners  w^ould  not  become  her  new  station  ? — and  what  philosopher 
would  not  tell  him  that  the  best  thing  to  do  with  these  little  passions 
if  they  spring  up,  is  to  get  rid  of  them,  and  let  them  pass  over  and 
cure  them  :  that  no  man  dies  about  a  woman,  or  vice  versa :  and  that 
one  or  the  other  having  found  the  impossibility  of  gratifying  his  or 
her  desire  in  the  particular  instance,  must  make  the  best  of  matters, 
forget  each  other,  look  out  elsewhere,  and  choose  again  ?  And  yet, 
perhaps,  there  may  be  something  said  on  the  other  side.  Perhaps  Bows 
was  right  in  admiring  that  passion  of  Pen's,  blind  and  unreasoning  as 
it  was,  that  made  him  ready  to  stake  his  all  for  his  love ;  perhaps, 
if  self-sacrifice  is  a  laudable  virtue,  mere  worldly  self-sacrifice  is  not 
very  much  to  be  praised ; — in  fine,  let  this  be  a  reserved  point,  to  be 
settled  by  the  individual  moralist  who  chooses  to  debate  it. 

So  much  is  certain,  that  with  the  experience  of  the  world  which 
Mr.  Pen  now  had,  he  would  have  laughed  at  and  scouted  the  idea 
of  marrying  a  penniless  girl  out  of  the  kitchen.  And  this  point  being 
fixed  in  his  mind,  he  was  but  doing  his  duty,  as  an  honest  man,  in 
crushing  any  unlucky  fondness  which  he  might  feel  towards  poor 
little  Fanny. 

So  she  waited  and  waited  in  hopes  that  Arthur  would  come.  She 
waited  for  a  whole  week,  and  it  was  at  the  end  of  that  time  that  the 
poor  little  creature  heard  from  Costigan  of  the  illness  under  which 
Arthur  was  suffering. 

It  chanced  on  that  \Qxy  evening  after  Costigan  hnd  visited  Pen, 


PE\J)EA'XIS.  497 

that  Arthur's  uncle  the  excellent  Major  arrived  in  town  from  Buxton, 
where  his  health  had  been  mended,  and  sent  his  valet  Morgan  to  make 
inquiries  for  Arthur,  and  to  request  that  gentleman  to  breakfast  with 
the  Major  the  next  morning.  The  Major  was  merely  passing  through 
London  on  his  way  to  the  Marquis  of  Steyne's  house  of  Stillbrook, 
where  he  was  enaged  to  shoot  partridges. 

Morgan  came  back  to  his  master  with  a  very  long  face.  He  had 
seen  Mr.  Arthur;  Mr.  Arthur  was  very  bad  indeed;  Mr.  Arthur  was 
in  bed  with  a  fever.  A  doctor  ought  to  be  sent  to  him;  and  Morgan 
thought  his  case  most  alarming. 

Gracious  goodness !  this  was  sad  news  indeed.  He  had  hoped 
that  Arthur  could  come  down  to  Stillbrook :  he  had  arranged  that  he 
should  go,  and  procured  an  invitation  foi  his  nephew  from  Lord  Steyne. 
He  must  go  himself;  he  couldn't  throw  Lord  Steyne  over:  the  fever 
might  be  catching:  it  might  be  measles:  he  had  never  himself  had 
the  measles;  they  were  dangerous  when  contracted  at  his  age.  Was 
anybody  with  Mr.  Arthur  1 

Morgan  said  there  was  somebody  a  nussing  of  Mr.  Arthur. 

The  Major  then  asked,  had  his  nephew  taken  any  advice.'' 
Morgan  said  he  had  asked  that  question,  and  had  been  told  that 
Mr.  Pendennis  had  had  no  doctor. 

Morgan's  master  was  sincerely  vexed  at  hearing  of  Arthur's  calamity. 
He  would  have  gone  to  him,  but  what  good  could  it  do  Arthur  that  he 
the  Major  should  catch  a  fever  ?  His  own  ailments  rendered  it  abso- 
lutely impossible  that  he  should  attend  to  anybody  but  himself.  But 
the  young  man  must  have  advice — the  best  advice;  and  Morgan  was 
straightway  despatched  with  a  note  from  Major  Pendennis  to  his  friend 
Doctor  Goodenough,  who  by  good  luck  happened  to  be  in  London 
and  at  home,  and  who  quitted  his  dinner  instantly,  and  whose  carriage 
was,  in  half  an  hour,  in  Upper  Temple  Lane,  near  Pen's  chambers. 

The  Major  had  asked  the  kind-hearted  physician  to  bring  him 
news  of  his  nephew  at  the  Club  where  he  himself  was  dining,  and  in 
the  course  of  the  night  the  Doctor  made  his  appearance.  The  affair 
was  very  serious ;  the  patient  was  in  a  high  fever :  he  had  had  Pen 
bled  instantly:  and  would  see  him  the  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
The  Major  went  disconsolate  to  bed  with  this  unfortunate  news. 
When  Goodenough  came  to  see  him  according  to  his  promise  the  next 
day,  the  Doctor  had  to  listen  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  an  account 
of  the  Major's  own  maladies,  before  the  latter  had  leisure  to  hear  about 
Arthur. 

He  had  had  a  very  bad  night — his — his  nurse  said:  at  one  hour 
he  had  been  delirious.  It  might  end  badly:  his  mother  had  better 
be  sent  for  immediately.  The  Major  wrote  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis with  the  greatest  alacrity,  and  at  the  same  time  with  the  most 

32 


498  PENDENNIS. 

polite  precautions.  As  for  going  himself  to  the  lad,  in  his  state  it  was 
impossible.  "Could  I  be  of  any  use  to  him,  my  dear  Doctor?"  he 
asked. 

The  Doctor,  with  a  peculiar  laugh,  said.  No  :  he  didn't  think  the 
Major  could  be  of  any  use :  that  his  own  precious  health  required  the 
most  delicate  treatment,  and  that  he  had  best  go  into  the  country  and 
stay :  that  he  himself  would  take  care  to  see  the  patient  twice  a  day, 
and  do  all  in  his  power  for  him. 

The  ]Major  declared  upon  his  honour,  that  if  he  could  be  of  any 
use  he  would  rush  to  Pen's  chambers.  As  it  was,  Morgan  should  go 
and  see  that  everything  was  right.  The  Doctor  must  write  to  him  by 
every  post  to  Stillbrook :  it  was  but  forty  miles  distant  from  London, 
and  if  anything  happened  he  would  come  up  at  any  sacrifice. 

Major  Pendennis  transacted  his  benevolence  by  deputy  and  by 
post.  "  What  else  could  he  do  ? "  as  he  said.  "  Gad,  you  know,  in 
these  cases,  it's  best  not  disturbing  a  fellow.  If  a  poor  fellow  goes  to 
the  bad,  why,  Gad,  you  know  he's  disposed  of  But  in  order  to  get 
well  (and  in  this,  my  dear  Doctor,  I'm  sure  that  you  will  agree  with 
me),  the  best  way  is  to  keep  him  quiet — perfectly  quiet." 

Thus  it  was  the  old  gentleman  tried  to  satisfy  his  conscience :  and 
he  went  his  way  that  day  to  Stillbrook  by  railway  (for  railways  have 
sprung  up  in  the  course  of  this  narrative,  though  they  have  not  quite 
penetrated  into  Pen's  country  yet),  and  made  his  appearance  in  his 
usual  trim  order  and  curly  -wig,  at  the  dinner-table  of  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne.  But  we  must  do  the  Major  the  justice  to  say,  that  he  was  ver)- 
unhappy  and  gloomy  in  demeanour.  Wagg  and  Wenham  rallied  him 
about  his  low  spirits;  asked  whether  he  was  crossed  in  love.'  and  other- 
wise diverted  themselves  at  his  expense.  He  lost  his  money  at  whist 
after  dinner,  and  actually  trumped  his  partner's  highest  spade.  And 
the  thoughts  of  the  suffering  boy,  of  whom  he  was  proud,  and  whom 
he  loved  after  his  manner,  kept  the  old  fellbw  awake  half  through 
the  night,  and  made  him  feverish  and  uneasy. 

On  the  morrow  he  received  a  note  in  a  handwriting  which  he  did 
not  know :  it  was  that  of  Mr.  Bows,  indeed,  saying  that  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis  had  had  a  tolerable  night ;  and  that  as  Dr.  Goodenough 
had  stated  that  the  Major  desired  to  be  informed  of  his  nephew's 
health,  he,  R.  B.,  had  sent  him  the  news  per  rail. 

The  next  day  he  was  going  out  shooting,  about  noon,  with  some 
of  the  gentlemen  staying  at  Lord  Steyne's  house ;  and  the  company, 
waiting  for  the  carriages,  were  assembled  on  the  terrace  in  front  of 
the  house,  when  a  fly  drove  up  from  the  neighbouring  station,  and  a 
grey-headed,  rather  shabby  old  gentleman,  jumped  out,  and  asked 
for  Major  Pendennis  ?  It  was  Mr.  Bows.  He  took  the  Major  aside 
and   spoke  to  him;  most  of  the  gentlemen   round   about   saw  that 


PENDENNIS.  499 

something  serious  had  happened,  from  the  alarmed  look  of  the 
Major's  face. 

Wagg  said,  "It's  a  bailiff  come  down  to  nab  the  Major;"  but 
nobody  laughed  at  the  pleasantry. 

"  Hullo  !  What's  the  matter,  Pendennis  1 "  cried  Lord  Steyne,  with 
his  strident  voice.     "  Anything  wrong  ? " 

"  It's — it's — my  boy  that's  dead,"  said  the  Major,  and  burst  into  a 
sob — the  old  man  was  quite  overcome. 

"  Not  dead,  my  Lord ;  but  very  ill  when  I  left  London,"  Mr.  Bows 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

A  britzka  came  up  at  this  moment  as  the  three  men  were  speaking. 
The  Peer  looked  at  his  watch,  "  You've  twenty  minutes  to  catch  the 
mail-train.  Jump  in,  Pendennis ;  and  drive  like  h — ,  sir,  do  you 
hear?" 

The  carriage  drove  off  swiftly  with  Pendennis  and  his  companions, 
and  let  us  trust  that  the  oath  will  be  pardoned  to  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne. 

The  Major  drove  rapidly  from  the  station  to  the  Temple,  and  found 
a  travelling-carriage  already  before  him,  and  blocking  up  the  narrow 
Temple  Lane.  Two  ladies  got  out  of  it,  and  were  asking  their  way  of 
the  porters  ;  the  Major  looked  by  chance  at  the  panel  of  the  carriage, 
and  saw  the  worn-out  crest  of  the  Eagle  looking  at  the  Sun,  and  the 
motto,  "  Nee  tenui  penna,"  painted  beneath.  It  was  his  brother's  old 
carriage,  built  many,  many  years  ago.  It  was  Helen  and  Laura  that 
were  asking  their  way  to  poor  Pen's  room. 

He  ran  up  to  them ;  hastily  clasped  his  sistci"'s  arm  and  kissed  her 
hand;  and  the  three  entered  into  Lamb  Court,  and  mounted  the  long 
gloomy  stair. 

They  knocked  ver}'  gently  at  the  door,  on  which  Arthur's  name  was 
written,  and  it  was  opened  by  Fanny  Bolton. 


5oo 


PENDENNIS, 


CHAPTER   LI  I. 

A    CRITICAL    CHAPTER. 

AS  Fanny  saw  the  two  ladies  and  the  anxious  countenance  of  the 
elder,  who  regarded  her  with  a  look  of  inscrutable  alarm  and 
terror,  the  poor  girl  at  once  knew  that  Pen's  mother  was  before  her ; 
there  was  a  resemblance  between  the  widow's  haggard  eyes  and 
Arthur's  as  he  tossed  in  his  bed  in  fever.  Fanny  looked  wistfully  at 
Mrs.  Pendennis  and  at  Laura  afterwards ;  there  was  no  more  expres- 
sion in  the  latter's  face  than  if  it  had  been  a  mass  of  stone.  Hard- 
heartedness  and  gloom  dwelt  on  the  figures  of  both  the  new-comers ; 
neither  showed  any  the  faintest  gleam  of  mercy  or  sj-mpathy  for  Fanny. 
She  looked  desperately  from  them  to  the  Major  behind  them.  Old 
Pendennis  dropped  his  eyelids,  looking  up  ever  so  stealthily  from 
under  them  at  Arthur's  poor  little  nurse. 

"  I — I  wrote  to  you  yesterday,  if  you  please,  ma'am,"'  Fanny  said, 
trembling  in  every  limb  as  she  spoke ;  and  as  pale  as  Laura,  whose 
sad  menacing  face  looked  over  Mrs.  Pendennis's  shoulder. 

"Did  you,  madam.'"'  Mrs.  Pendennis  said.  "I  suppose  I  may 
now  relieve  you  from  nursing  my  son.  I  am  his  mother,  you  under- 
stand." 

"Yes,  ma'am.     I — this  is  the  way  to  his— Oh,  wait  a  minute,"  cried 

out  Fanny.     "  I  must  prepare  you  for  his " 

The  widow,  whose  face  had  been  hopelessly  cruel  and  ruthless, 
here  started  back  with  a  gasp  and  a  little  cr\',  which  she  speedily 
stifled. 

"  He's  been  so  since  yesterday,"  Fanny  said,  trembling  very  much, 
and  with  chattering  teeth. 

A  horrid  shriek  of  laughter  came  out  of  Pen's  room,  whereof  the 
door  was  open ;  and,  after  several  shouts,  the  poor  wretch  began  to 
sing  a  college  drinking-song,  and  then  to  hurray  and  to  shout  as  if  he 
was  in  the  midst  of  a  wine-party,  and  to  thump  with  his  fist  against 
the  wainscot.     He  was  quite  delirious. 

"  He  does  not  know  me,  ma'am,"  Fanny  said. 
"  Indeed.     Perhaps  he  will  know  his  mother;  let  me  pass,  if  you 
please,  and  go  in  to  him."     And  the  widow  hastily  pushed  by  little 
Fanny,  and  through  the  dark  passage  which  led  into  Pen's  sitting-room. 


PENDENNIS.  501 

Laura  sailed  by  Fanny,  too,  without  a  word;  and  Major  Pendennis 
followed  them.  Fanny  sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  passage,  and  cried, 
and  prayed  as  well  as  she  could.  She  would  have  died  for  him;  and 
they  hated  her !  They  had  not  a  word  of  thanks  or  kindness  for  her, 
the  fine  ladies.  She  sate  there  in  the  passage,  she  did  not  know  how 
long.  They  never  came  out  to  speak  to  her.  She  sate  there  until 
Doctor  Goodenough  came  to  pay  his  second  visit  that  day;  he  found 
tlie  poor  little  thing  at  the  door. 

"What,  nurse.''  How's  your  patient?"  asked  the  good-natured 
Doctor.     '•  Has  he  had  any  rest  ?" 

"  Go  and  ask  them.     They're  inside,"  Fanny  answered. 

"Who.^  his  mother?" 

Fanny  nodded  her  head  and  didn't  speak. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed  yourself,  my  poor  little  maid,"  said  the 
Doctor.     "  You  will  be  ill,  too,  if  you  don't." 

"  Oh,  mayn't  I  come  and  see  him :  mayn't  I  come  and  see  him ! 
I — I — love  him  so,"  the  little  girl  said ;  and  as  she  spoke  she  fell  down 
on  her  knees  and  clasped  hold  of  the  Doctoi-'s  hand  in  such  an  agony 
that  to  see  her  melted  the  kind  physician's  heart,  and  caused  a  mist  to 
come  over  his  spectacles. 

"  Pooh,  pooh!  Nonsense!  Nurse,  has  he  taken  his  draught?  Has 
he  had  any  rest  ?    Of  course  you  must  come  and  see  him.    So  must  I." 

"  They'll  let  me  sit  here,  won't  they,  sir  ?  I'll  never  make  no  noise. 
I  only  ask  to  stop  here,"  Fanny  said.  On  which  the  Doctor  called 
her  a  stupid  little  thing  ;  put  her  down  upon  the  bench  where  Pen's 
printers  devil  used  to  sit  so  many  hours  ;  tapped  her  pale  cheek  with 
his  finger,  and  bustled  into  the  further  room. 

Mrs.  Pendennis  was  esconced  pale  and  solemn  in  a  great  chair  by 
Pen's  bed-side.  Her  watch  was  on  the  bed-table  by  Pen's  medicines. 
Her  bonnet  and  cloaks  were  laid  in  the  window.  She  had  her  Bible 
in  her  lap,  without  which  she  never  travelled.  Her  first  movement, 
after  seeing  her  son,  had  been  to  take  Fanny's  shawl  and  bonnet  which 
were  on  his  drawers,  and  bring  them  out  and  drop  them  down  upon 
his  study-table.  She  had  closed  the  door  upon  Major  Pendennis,  and 
Laura  too  ;  and  taken  possession  of  her  son. 

She  had  had  a  great  doubt  and  terror  lest  Arthur  should  not  know 
her  ;  but  that  pang  was  spared  to  her,  in  part  at  least.  Pen  knew 
his  mother  quite  well,  and  familiarly  smiled  and  nodded  at  her. 
When  she  came  in,  he  instantly  fancied  they  were  at  home  at 
Fairoaks  ;  and  began  to  talk  and  chatter  and  laugh  in  a  rambling 
wild  way.  Laura  could  hear  him  outside.  PI  is  laughter  shot  shafts 
of  poison  into  her  heart.  It  was  true  then.  He  had  been  guilty — 
and  with  //mi  creature  I — an  intrigue  with  a  servant-maid  ;  and  she 
had  loved   him — and   lie   was   dying  most  likely — raving  and  unre- 


'6  ^     W^ 


502 


PENDENNIS. 


pentant.  The  Major  now  and  then  hummed  out  a  word  of  remark 
or  consolation,  which  Laura  scarce  heard.  A  dismal  sitting  it  was 
for  all  parties  ;  and  when  Goodenough  appeared,  he  came  like  an 
angel  into  the  room. 

It  is  not  only  for  the  sick  man,  it  is  for  the  sick  man's  friends  that 
the  Doctor  comes.  His  presence  is  often  as  good  for  them  as  for  the 
patient,  and  they  long  for  him  yet  more  eagerly.  How  we  have  all 
watched  after  him  !  what  an  emotion  the  thrill  of  his  carriage-wheels 
in  the  street,  and  at  length  at  the  door,  has  made  us  feel  !  how  we 
hang  upon  his  words,  and  what  a  comfort  we  get  from  a  smile  or  two, 
if  he  can  vouchsafe  that  sunshine  to  lighten  our  darkness  !  Who 
hasn't  seen  the  mother  pr)-ing  into  his  face,  to  know  if  there  is  hope 
for  the  sick  infant  that  cannot  speak,  and  that  lies  yonder,  its  little 
frame  battling  with  fever  ?  Ah,  how  she  looks  into  his  eyes  !  What 
thanks  if  there  is  light  there ;  what  grief  and  pain  if  he  casts  them 
down,  and  dares  not  say  "  hope  ! "  Or  it  is  the  house-father  who  is 
stricken.  The  terrified  wife  looks  on,  while  the  Physician  feels  his 
patient's  wrist,  smothering  her  agonies,  as  the  children  have  been 
called  upon  to  stay  their  plays  and  their  talk.  Over  the  patient  in 
the  fever,  the  wife  expectant,  the  children  unconscious,  the  Doctor 
stands  as  if  he  were  Fate,  the  dispenser  of  life  and  death  :  he  7nust 
let  the  patient  off  this  time  ;  the  woman  prays  so  for  his  respite  ! 
One  can  fancy  how  awful  the  responsibility  must  be  to  a  conscientious 
man  :  how  cruel  the  feeling  that  he  has  given  the  wrong  remedy,  or 
that  it  might  have  been  possible  to  do  better :  how  harassing  the 
sympathy  with  survavors,  if  the  case  is  unfortunate — how  immense  the 
delight  of  victor)'  ! 

Having  passed  through  a  hasty  ceremony  of  introduction  to  the 
new-comers,  of  whose  arrival  he  had  been  made  aware  by  the  heart- 
broken little  nurse  in  waiting  without,  the  Doctor  proceeded  to  examine 
the  patient,  about  whose  condition  of  high  fever  there  could  be  no 
mistake,  and  on  whom  he  thought  it  necessary  to  exercise  the  strongest 
antiphlogistic  remedies  in  his  power.  He  consoled  the  unfortunate 
mother  as  best  he  might  ;  and  giving  her  the  most  comfortable 
assurances  on  which  he  could  venture,  that  there  was  no  reason  to 
despair  yet,  that  everjthing  might  still  be  hoped  from  his  youth,  the 
strength  of  his  constitution,  and  so  forth  ;  and  having  done  his  utmost 
to  allay  the  horrors  of  the  alarmed  matron,  he  took  the  elder  Pen- 
dennis  aside  into  the  vacant  room  (W'arrington's  bed-room),  for  the 
purpose  of  holding  a  little  consultation. 

The  case  was  very  critical.  The  fever,  if  not  stopped,  might  and 
would  carry  off  the  young  fellow  :  he  must  be  bled  forthwith  :  the 
mother  must  be  informed  of  this  necessity.  Why  was  that  other  young 
lady  brought  with  her?     She  was  out  of  place  in  a  sick  room. 


PENDENNIS.  503 

"  And  there  was  another  woman  still,  be  hanged  to  it  ! "  the  Major 
said  :  "the — the  little  person  who  opened  the  door.  His  sister-in-law 
had  brought  the  poor  little  devil's  bonnet  and  shawl  out,  and  flung 
them  upon  the  study-table.  Did  Goodenough  know  anything  about 
the — the  little  person  ?  I  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  as  we  passed 
in,"  the  Major  said,  "  and,  begad,  she  was  uncommonly  nice-looking." 
The  Doctor  looked  queer  :  the  Doctor  smiled — in  the  very  gravest 
moments,  with  life  and  death  pending,  such  strange  contrasts  and 
occasions  of  humour  will  arise,  and  such  smiles  will  pass,  to  satirize 
the  gloom,  as  it  were,  and  to  make  it  more  gloomy  ! 

"  I  have  it,"  at  last  he  said,  re-entering  the  study  ;  and  he  wrote 
a  couple  of  notes  hastily  at  the  table  there,  and  sealed  one  of  them. 
Then,  taking  up  poor  Fanny's  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  the  notes,  he 
went  out  in  the  passage  to  that  poor  little  messenger,  and  said, 
"  Quick,  nurse;  you  must  carry  this  to  the  surgeon,  and  bid  him  come 
instantly:  and  then  go  to  my  house,  and  ask  for  my  servant,  Har- 
bottle,  and  tell  him  to  get  this  prescription  prepared ;  and  wait  until  I 
- — until  it  is  ready.     It  may  take  a  little  time  in  preparation." 

So  poor  Fanny  trudged  away  with  her  two  notes,  and  found  the 
apothecary,  who  lived  in  the  Strand  hard  by,  and  who  came  straight- 
way, his  lancet  in  his  pocket,  to  operate  on  his  patient ;  and  then 
Fanny  made  for  the  Doctor's  house,  in  Hanover  Square. 

The  Doctor  was  at  home  again  before  the  prescription  was  made 
up,  which  took  Harbottle,  his  servant,  such  a  long  time  in  compound- 
ing ;  and,  during  the  remainder  of  Arthur's  illness,  poor  Fanny  never 
made  her  appearance  in  the  quality  of  nurse  at  his  chambers  any 
more.  But  for  that  day  and  the  next,  a  little  figure  might  be  seen 
lurking  about  Pen's  staircase, — a  sad,  sad  little  face  looked  at  and' 
interrogated  the  apothecary,  and  the  apothecary's  boy,  and  the  laun- 
dress, and  the  kind  physician  himself,  as  they  passed  out  of  the  cham- 
bers of  the  sick  man.  And  on  the  third  day,  the  kind  Doctor's  chariot 
stopped  at  Shepherd's  Inn,  and  the  good,  and  honest,  and  benevolent 
man  went  into  the  Porter's  Lodge,  and  tended  a  little  patient  he  had 
there,  for  whom  the  best  remedy  he  found  was  on  the  day  when  he 
was  enabled  to  tell  Fanny  Bolton  that  the  crisis  was  over,  and  that 
there  was  at  length  every  hope  for  Arthur  Pendennis. 

J.  Costigan,  Esquire,  late  of  his  Majesty's  service,  saw  the  Doctor's 
carriage,  and  criticised  its  horses  and  appointments.  "  Green  liveries, 
bedad ! "  the  General  said  ;  "  and  as  foin  a  pair  of  high-stepping  bee 
horses  as  ever  a  gentleman  need  sit  behoind,  let  alone  a  docthor. 
There's  no  ind  to  the  proide  and  ar'gance  of  them  docthors,  now-a- 
days — not  but  that  is  a  good  one,  and  a  scoientific  cyarkter,  and  a 
roight  good  fellow,  bedad ;  and  he's  brought  the  poor  little  girl  well 
troo  her  faver,  Bows,  me  boy;"   and  so  pleased  was  Mr.  Costigan 


504  PENBENNIS. 

with  the  Doctor's  behaviour  and  skill,  that,  whenever  he  met  Dr. 
(loodenough's  carriage  in  future,  he  made  a  point  of  saluting  it  and 
the  physician  inside,  in  as  courteous  and  magnificent  a  manner,  as  if 
Dr.  Goodenough  had  been  the  Lord  Liftenant  himself,  and  Captain 
Costigan  had  been  in  his  glon,'  in  Phaynix  Park. 

The  widow's  gratitude  to  the  physician  knew  no  bounds  —  or 
scarcely  any  bounds,  at  least.  The  kind  gentleman  laughed  at  the 
idea  of  taking  a  fee  from  a  literar)-  man,  or  the  widow  of  a  brother 
practitioner,  and  she  determined  when  she  got  back  to  Fairoaks  that 
she  would  send  Goodenough  the  silver-gilt  vase,  the  jewel  of  the 
house,  and  the  glorj-  of  the  late  John  Pendennis,  preserved  in  green 
baize,  and  presented  to  him  at  Bath,  by  the  Lady  Elizabeth  Firebrace, 
on  the  recovery  of  her  son,  the  late  Sir  Anthony  Firebrace,  from  the 
scarlet  fever.  Hippocrates.  Hygeia,  King  Bladud,  and  a  wreath  of 
serpents  surmount  the  cup  to  this  day ;  which  was  executed  in  their 
finest  manner,  by  Messrs.  Abednego,  of  Milsom  Street;  and  the  in- 
scription was  by  Mr.  Birch,  tutor  to  the  young  baronet. 

This  priceless  gem  of  art  the  widow  detennined  to  devote  to  Good- 
enough,  the  preserver  of  her  son;  and  there  was  scarcely  any  other 
favour  which  her  gratitude  would  not  have  conferred  upon  him,  except 
one,  which  he  desired  most,  and  which  was  that  she  should  tliink  a 
little  charitably  and  kindly  of  poor  Fanny,  of  whose  artless,  sad  stor\-, 
he  had  got  something  during  his  interviews  with  her,  and  of  whom  he 
w;is  induced  to  think  very  kindly, — not  being  disposed,  indeed,  to  give 
much  credit  to  Pen  for  his  conduct  in  the  affair,  or  not  knowing  what 
that  conduct  had  been.  He  knew  enough,  however,  to  be  aware  that 
the  poor  infatuated  little  girl  was  without  stain  as  yet;  that  while  she 
had  been  in  Pen's  room  it  was  to  see  the  last  of  him,  as  she  thought, 
and  that  Arthur  was  scarcely  aware  of  her  presence;  and  that  she 
suffered  under  the  deepest  and  most  pitiful  grief,  at  the  idea  of  losing 
him,  dead  or  living. 

But  on  the  one  or  two  occasions  when  Goodenough  alluded  to 
Fanny,  the  v.idow's  countenance,  always  soft  and  gentle,  assumed  an 
expression  so  cruel  and  inexorable,  that  the  Doctor  saw  it  was  in  vain 
to  ask  her  for  justice  or  pity,  and  he  broke  off  all  entreaties,  and  ceased 
making  any  further  allusions  regarding  his  little  client.  There  is  a 
complaint  which  neither  poppy,  nor  mandragora,  nor  all  the  drowsy 
syrups  of  the  East  could  allay,  in  the  men  in  his  time,  as  we  are  in- 
formed by  a  popular  poet  of  the  days  of  Elizabeth ;  and  which,  when 
exhibited  in  women,  no  medical  discoveries  or  practice  subsequent — 
neither  homoeopathy,  nor  hydropathy,  nor  mesmerism,  nor  Dr.  Simpson, 
nor  Dr.  Locock  can  cure,  and  that  is — we  won't  call  it  jealousy,  but 
rather  gently  denominate  it  rivalry  and  emulation  in  ladies. 

Some  of  those  mischievous  and  prosaic  people  who  carp  and  calcu- 


PENDENNIS.  505 

late  at  every  detail  of  the  romancer,  and  want  to  know,  for  instance, 
how,  when  the  characters  in  the  "  Critic  "  are  at  a  dead  lock  with  their 
daggers  at  each  other's  throats,  they  are  to  be  got  out  of  that  murderous 
complication  of  circumstances,  may  be  induced  to  ask  how  it  was  pos- 
sible in  a  set  of  chambers  in  the  Temple,  consisting  of  three  rooms,  two 
cupboards,  a  passage,  and  a  coal-box,  Arthur  a  sick  gentleman,  Helen 
his  mother,  Laura  her  adopted  daughter,  Martha  their  country  attendant, 
Mrs.  Wheezer,  a  nurse  from  St.  Bartholomew's  Hospital,  Mrs.  Flanagan 
an  Irish  laundress.  Major  Pendennis  a  retired  military  officer,  Morgan 
his  valet,  Pidgeon  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis's  boy,  and  others,  could  be 
accommodated — the  answer  is  given  at  once,  that  almost  everybody  in 
the  Temple  was  out  of  town,  and  that  there  was  scarcely  a  single  occu- 
pant of  Pen's  house  in  Lamb  Court  except  those  who  were  engaged 
round  the  sick  bed  of  the  sick  gentleman,  about  whose  fever  we  have 
not  given  a  lengthy  account,  neither  shall  we  enlarge  very  much  upon 
the  more  cheerful  theme  of  his  recovery. 

Everybody,  we  have  said,  was  out  of  town,  and  of  course  such  a 
fashionable  man  as  young  Mr.  Sibwright,  who  had  chambers  on  the 
second  floor  in  Pen's  staircase,  could  not  be  supposed  to  remain  in 
London.  Mrs.  Flanagan,  Mr.  Pendennis's  laundress,  was  acquainted 
with  Mrs.  Rouncy,  who  did  for  Mr.  Sibwright,  and  that  gentleman's 
bed-room  was  got  ready  for  Miss  Bell,  or  Mrs.  Pendennis,  when  the 
latter  should  be  inclined  to  leave  her  son's  sick  room,  to  try  and  seek 
for  a  little  rest  for  herself. 

If  that  young  buck  and  flovrer  of  Baker  Street,  Percy  Sibwright, 
could  have  known  who  was  the  occupant  of  his  bed-room,  how  proud 
he  would  have  been  of  that  apartment ; — what  poems  he  would  have 
written  about  Laura!  (several  of  his  things  have  appeared  in  the 
annuals,  and  in  manuscript  in  the  nobility's  albums) — he  was  a  Cam- 
ford  man,  and  very  nearly  got  the  English  Prize  Poem,  it  was  said — 
Sibwright,  however,  was  absent,  and  his  bed  given  up  to  Miss  Bell.  It 
was  the  prettiest  little  brass  bed  in  the  world,  with  chintz  curtains  lined 
with  pink — he  had  a  mignonette  box  in  his  bed-room  window,  and  the 
mere  sight  of  his  little  exhibition  of  shiny  boots,  arranged  in  trim  rows 
over  his  wardrobe,  was  a  gratification  to  the  beholder.  He  had  a 
museum  of  scent,  pomatum,  and  bear's-grease  pots,  quite  curious  to 
examine,  too;  and  a  choice  selection  of  portraits  of  females,  almost 
always  in  sadness  and  generally  in  disguise  or  ddshabille,  glittered 
round  the  neat  walls  of  his  elegant  little  bower  of  repose.  Medora  with 
dishevelled  hair  was  consoling  herself  over  her  banjo  for  the  absence 
of  her  Conrad — the  Princcsse  Flcur  de  Marie  (of  Rudolstein  and  the 
Mysteres  de  Paris)  was  sadly  ogling  out  of  the  bars  of  her  convent 
cage,  in  which,  poor  prisoned  bird,  she  was  moulting  away — Dorothea 
of  Don  Quixote  was  washing  her  eternal  feet : — in  fine,  it  was  such  an 


5o6  PENDENNIS. 

elei,'ant  gallery  as  became  a  gallant  lover  of  the  sex.  And  in  Sibwright's 
sitting-room,  while  there  was  quite  an  infantine  law  library  clad  in 
skins  of  fresh  new-born  calf,  there  was  a  tolerably  large  collection  of 
classical  books  which  he  could  not  read,  and  of  English  and  French 
works  of  poetry  and  fiction  which  he  read  a  great  deal  too  much.  His 
invitation  cards  of  the  past  season  still  decorated  his  looking-glass; 
and  scarce  anything  told  of  the  lawyer  but  the  wig-box  beside  the 
Venus  upon  the  middle  shelf  of  the  bookcase,  on  which  the  name  of 
P.  Sibwright,  Esquire,  was  gilded. 

With  Sibwright  in  chambers  was  Mr.  Bangham.  Mr.  Bangham 
was  a  sporting  man,  married  to  a  rich  widow.  ]\Ir.  Bangham  had  no 
practice — did  not  come  to  chambers  thrice  in  a  term :  went  a  circuit 
for  those  mysterious  reasons  which  make  men  go  circuit, — and  his 
room  served  as  a  great  convenience  to  Sibwright  when  that  young 
gentleman  gave  his  little  dinners.  It  must  be  confessed  that  these 
two  gentlemen  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  history,  will  never  appear 
in  it  again  probably,  but  we  cannot  help  glancing  through  their  doors 
as  they  happen  to  be  open  to  us,  and  as  we  pass  to  Pen's  rooms ;  as 
in  the  pursuit  of  our  own  business  in  life  through  the  Strand,  at  the 
Club,  nay  at  church  itself,  we  cannot  help  peeping  at  the  shops  on  the 
wa)-,  or  at  our  neighbour's  dinner,  or  at  the  faces  under  the  bonnets  in 
the  next  pew. 

Very  many  years  after  the  circumstances  about  which  we  are  at 
present  occupied,  Laura,  with  a  blush  and  a  laugh  showing  much 
humour,  owned  to  having  read  a  French  novel  once  much  in  vogue, 
and  when  her  husband  asked  her,  wondering  where  on  earth  she  could 
have  got  such  a  volume,  she  owned  that  it  was  in  the  Temple,  when 
she  lived  in  Mr.  Percy  Sibwright's  chambers. 

"  And,  also,  I  never  confessed,"  she  said,  "  on  that  same  occasion, 
what  I  must  now  own  to :  that  I  opened  the  japanned  box,  and  took 
out  that  strange-looking  wig  inside  it,  and  put  it  on,  and  looked  at  my- 
self in  the  glass  in  it." 

Suppose  Percy  Sibwright  had  come  in  at  such  a  moment  as  that .' 
What  would  he  have  said, — the  enraptured  rogue  ?  What  would  have 
been  all  the  pictures  of  disguised  beauties  in  his  room  compared  to 
that  living  one  ?  Ah,  we  are  speaking  of  old  times,  when  SibwTight 
was  a  bachelor  and  before  he  got  a  count>^  court, — when  people  were 
young — when  most  people  were  young.  Other  people  are  young  now ; 
but  we  no  more. 

When  Miss  Laura  played  this  prank  with  the  wig,  you  can't  sup- 
pose that  Pen  could  have  been  very  ill  upstairs;  otherwise,  though 
she  had  growTi  to  care  for  him  ever  so  little,  common-sense  of  feeling 
and  decorum  would  have  prevented  her  from  performing  any  tricks  or 
trying  any  disguises. 


PENDENNJS.  507 

But  all  sorts  of  events  had  occurred  in  the  course  of  the  last  few 
days  which  had  contributed  to  increase  or  account  for  her  gaiety,  and 
a  little  colony  of  the  reader's  old  friends  and  acquaintances  was  by 
this  time  established  in  Lamb  Court,  Temple,  and  round  Pen's  sick- 
bed there.  First,  Martha,  Mrs.  Pendennis's  servant,  had  arrived  from 
Fairoaks,  being  summoned  thence  by  the  Major,  who  justly  thought 
her  presence  would  be  comfortable  and  useful  to  her  mistress  and  her 
young  master,  for  neither  of  whom  the  constant  neighbourhood  of 
Mrs.  Flanagan  (who  during  Pen's  illness  required  more  spirituous  con- 
solation than  ever  to  support  her)  could  be  pleasant.  Martha  then 
made  her  appearance  in  due  season  to  wait  upon  Mrs.  Pendennis,  nor 
did  that  lady  go  once  to  bed  until  the  faithful  servant  had  reached  her, 
when,  with  a  heart  full  of  maternal  thankfulness,  she  went  and  lay 
down  upon  Wanrington's  straw  mattress,  and  among  his  mathematical 
books,  as  has  been  already  described. 

It  is  true  that  ere  that  day  a  great  and  delightful  alteration  in 
Pen's  condition  had  taken  place.  The  fever,  subjugated  by  Dr.  Good- 
enough's  blisters,  potions,  and  lancet,  had  left  the  young  man,  or 
only  returned  at  intervals  of  feeble  intermittence ;  his  wandering 
senses  had  settled  in  his  weakened  brain :  he  had  had  time  to  kiss 
and  bless  his  mother  for  coming  to  him,  and  calling  for  Laura  and 
his  uncle  (who  were  both  affected  according  to  their  different  natures 
by  his  wan  appearance,  his  lean  shrunken  hands,  his  hollow  eyes 
and  voice,  his  thin  bearded  face),  to  press  their  hands  and  thank 
them  affectionately ;  and  after  this  greeting,  and  after  they  had  been 
turned  out  of  the  room  by  his  affectionate  nurse,  he  had  sunk  into  a 
fine  sleep,  which  had  lasted  for  about  sixteen  hours,  at  the  end  of 
which  period  he  awoke  calling  out  that  he  was  very  hungiy.  If  it  is 
hard  to  be  ill  and  to  loathe  food,  oh,  how  pleasant  to  be  getting  well 
and  to  be  feeling  hungry  —  how  hungry  !  Alas,  the  joys  of  con- 
valescence become  feebler  with  increasing  years,  as  other  joys  do 
— and  then — and  then  comes  that  illness  when  one  does  not  con- 
valesce at  all. 

On  the  day  of  this  happy  event,  too,  came  another  arrival  in 
Lamb  Court.  This  was  introduced  into  the  Pcn-Warrington  sitting- 
room  by  large  puffs  of  tobacco-smoke — the  puffs  of  smoke  were 
followed  by  an  individual  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  and  a  carpet- 
bag under  his  arm — this  was  Warrington,  who  had  run  back  from 
Norfolk,  when  Mr.  Bows  thoughtfully  wrote  to  inform  him  of  his 
friend's  calamity.  But  he  had  been  from  home  when  Bows's  letter 
had  reached  his  brother's  house — the  Eastern  Counties  did  not  then 
boast  of  a  railway  (for  we  beg  the  reader  to  understand  that  we  only 
commit  anachronisms  when  we  choose,  and  when  by  a  daring  viola- 
tion of  those  natural  laws  some  great  ethical  truth  is  to  be  advanced) 


5o8  PENDENNIS. 

— in  fine,  Warrington  only  appeared  with  the  rest  of  the  good  hick 
upon  the  lucky  day  after  Pen's  convalescence  may  have  been  said  to 
have  begun. 

His  surprise  was,  after  all,  not  verj^  great  when  he  found  the 
chambers  of  his  sick  friend  occupied,  and  his  old  acquaintance  the 
Major  seated  demurely  in  an  easy-chair  (Warrington  had  let  himself 
into  the  rooms  with  his  own  pass-key),  listening,  or  pretending  to 
listen,  to  a  young  lady  who  was  reading  to  him  a  play  of  Shakspeare 
in  a  low  sweet  voice.  The  lady  stopped  and  started,  and  laid  down 
her  book,  at  the  apparition  of  the  tall  traveller  with  the  cigar  and  the 
carpet-bag.  He  blushed,  he  flung  the  cigar  into  the  passage:  he  took 
off  his  hat,  and  dropped  that  too,  and  going  up  to  the  Major,  seized 
that  old  gentleman's  hand,  and  asked  questions  about  Arthur. 

The  Major  answered  in  a  tremulous,  though  cheery  voice — it  was 
curious  how  emotion  seemed  to  olden  him — and  returning  Warring- 
ton's pressure  with  a  shaking  hand,  told  him  the  news— of  Arthur's 
happy  crisis,  of  his  mother's  arrival — with  her  young  charge — with 
Miss 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  her  name,"  Mr.  Warrington  said  with  great 
animation,  for  he  was  affected  and  elated  with  the  thought  of  his  friend's 
recovery — "  you  need  not  tell  me  your  name.  !  knew  at  once  it  was 
Laura."  And  he  held  out  his  hand  and  took  hers.  Immense  kindness 
and  tenderness  gleamed  from  under  his  rough  eyebrows,  and  shook 
his  voice  as  he  gazed  at  her  and  spoke  to  her.  "  And  this  is  Laura !  " 
his  looks  seemed  to  say.  "And  this  is  Warrington,"  the  generous 
girl's  heart  beat  back.  "  Arthur's  hero — the  brave  and  the  kind — he 
has  come  hundreds  of  miles  to  succour  him,  when  he  heard  of  his 
friend's  misfortune." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Warrington,"  was  all  that  Laura  said,  however: 
and  as  she  returned  the  pressure  of  his  kind  hand,  she  blushed  so, 
that  she  was  glad  the  lamp  was  behind  her  to  conceal  her  flushing 
face. 

As  these  two  were  standing  in  this  attitude,  the  door  of  Pen's  bed- 
chamber was  opened  stealthily  as  his  mother  was  wont  to  open  it,  and 
Warrington  saw  another  lady,  who  first  looked  at  him,  and  tlien  turn- 
ing round  towards  the  bed,  said,  "  Hsh ! "  and  put  up  her  hand. 

It  was  to  Pen  Helen  was  turning,  and  giving  caution.  He  called 
out  with  a  feeble,  tremulous,  but  cheer)^  voice,  "  Come  in,  Stunner — 
come  in,  Warrington.  I  knew  it  was  you — by  the — by  the  smoke,  old 
boy,"  he  said,  as  holding  his  worn  hand  out,  and  with  tears  at  once  of 
weakness  and  pleasure  in  his  eyes,  he  greeted  his  friend. 

"  I — I  beg  pardon,  ma'am,  for  smoking,"  Warrington  said,  who  now 
almost  for  the  first  time  blushed  for  his  wicked  propensity. 

Helen  only  said,  "  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Warrington."     She  was  so 


PENDENNJS.  509 

happy,  she  would  have  hked  to  kiss  George.  Then,  and  after  the 
ifriends  had  had  a  brief,  very  brief  interview,  the  dehghted  and. in- 
exorable mother,  giving  her  hand  to  Warrington,  sent  him  out  of  the 
room  too,  back  to  Laura  and  the  Major,  who  had  not  resumed  their 
jplay  of  Cymbeline  where  they  had  left  it  off  at  the  arrival  of  the  rightful 
lowner  of  Pen's  chambers. 


5IO  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

CONVALESCENCE. 

OUR  duty  now  is  to  record  a  fact  concerning  Pendennis,  which, 
however  shameful  and  disgraceful,  when  told  regarding  the 
chief  personage  and  godfather  of  a  novel,  must,  nevertheless,  be  made 
known  to  the  public  who  reads  his  veritable  memoirs.  Having  gone 
to  bed  ill  Avith  fever,  and  suffering  to  a  certain  degree  under  the 
passion  of  love,  after  he  had  gone  through  his  physical  malady,  and 
had  been  bled  and  had  been  blistered,  and  had  had  his  head  shaved, 
and  had  been  treated  and  medicamented  as  the  doctor  ordained : — it 
is  a  fact,  that,  when  he  rallied  from  his  bodily  ailment,  his  mental 
malady  had  likewise  quitted  him,  and  he  was  no  more  in  love  mth 
Fanny  Bolton  than  you  or  I,  who  are  much  too  wise,  or  too  moral, 
to  allow  our  hearts  to  go  gadding  after  porters'  daughters. 

He  laughed  at  himself  as  he  lay  on  his  pillow,  thinking  of  this 
second  cure  which  had  been  effected  upon  him.  He  did  not  care  the 
least  about  Fanny  now :  he  wondered  how  he  ever  should  have  cared : 
and  according  to  his  custom  made  an  autopsy  of  that  dead  passion, 
and  anatomised  his  own  defunct  sensation  for  his  poor  little  nurse. 
What  could  have  made  him  so  hot  and  eager  about  her  but  a  few 
weeks  back  ?  Not  her  wit,  not  her  breeding,  not  her  beauty — there 
were  hundreds  of  women  better-looking  than  she.  It  was  out  of  him- 
self that  the  passion  had  gone :  it  did  not  reside  in  her.  She  was  the 
same ;  but  the  eyes  which  saw  her  were  changed ;  and,  alas,  that  it 
should  be  so !  were  not  particularly  eager  to  see  her  any  more.  He 
felt  ver)^  well  disposed  towards  the  little  thing,  and  so  forth,  but  as  for 
violent  personal  regard,  such  as  he  had  but  a  few  weeks  ago,  it  had 
fled  under  the  influence  of  the  pill  and  lancet,  which  had  destroyed 
the  fever  in  his  frame.  And  an  immense  source  of  comfort  and 
gratitude  it  was  to  Pendennis  (though  there  was  something  selfish  in 
that  feeling,  as  in  most  others  of  our  young  man),  that  he  had  been 
enabled  to  resist  temptation  at  the  time  when  the  danger  was  greatest, 
and  had  no  particular  cause  of  self-reproach  as  he  remembered  his 
conduct  towards  the  young  girl.  As  from  a  precipice  down  which  he 
might  have  fallen,  so  from  the  fever  from  which  he  had  recovered,  he 
reviewed  the  Fanny  Bolton  snare,  now  that  he  had  escaped  out  of  it, 


PENDENNIS.  511 

but  I'm  not  sure  that  he  was  not  ashamed  of  the  very  satisfoction 
which  he  experienced.  It  is  pleasant,  perhaps,  but  it  is  humihating  to 
own  that  you  love  no  more. 

Meanwhile  the  kind  smiles  and  tender  watchfulness  of  the  mother 
at  his  bed-side,  filled  the  young  man  with  peace  and  security.  To 
'  see  that  health  was  returning,  was  all  the  unwearied  nurse  demanded  : 
to  execute  any  caprice  or  order  of  her  patient's,  her  chiefest  joy  and 
reward.  He  felt  himself  environed  by  her  love,  and  thought  himself 
I  almost  as  grateful  for  it  as  he  had  been  when  weak  and  helpless  in 
childhood. 

Some  misty  notions  regarding  the  first  part  of  his  illness,  and  that 
Fanny  had  nursed  him.  Pen  may  have  had,  but  they  were  so  dim  that 
he  could  not  realise  them  with  accuracy,  or  distinguish  them  from 
what  he  knew  to  be  delusions  which  had  occurred  and  were  remem- 
bered during  the  delirium  of  his  fever.  So  as  he  had  not  thought  proper 
on  former  occasions  to  make  any  allusions  about  Fanny  Bolton  to  his 
mother,  of  course  he  could  not  now  confide  to  her  his  sentiments 
regarding  Fanny,  or  make  this  worthy  lady  a  confidante.  It  was  on 
both  sides  an  unlucky  precaution  and  want  of  confidence ;  and  a  word 
or  two  in  time  might  have  spared  the  good  lady,  and  those  connected 
with  her,  a  deal  of  pain  and  anguish. 

Seeing  Miss  Bolton  installed  as  nurse  and  tender  to  Pen,  I  am 
sorry  to  say  INIrs.  Pendennis  had  put  the  worst  construction  on  the 
fact  of  the  intimacy  of  these  two  unlucky  young  persons,  and  had 
settled  in  her  own  mind  that  the  accusations  against  Arthur  were  true. 
Why  not  have  stopped  to  inquire  ? — There  are  stories  to  a  man's 
disadvantage  that  the  women  who  are  fondest  of  him  are  always  the 
most  eager  to  believe.  Isn't  a  man's  wife  often  the  first  to  be  jealous 
of  him  ?  Poor  Pen  got  a  good  stock  of  this  suspicious  kind  of  love 
from  the  nurse  who  was  now  watching  over  him ;  and  the  kind  and 
pure  creature  thought  that  her  boy  had  gone  through  a  malady  much 
more  awful  and  debasing  than  the  mere  physical  fever,  and  was 
stained  by  crime  as  well  as  weakened  by  illness.  The  consciousness 
of  this  she  had  to  bear  perforce  silently,  and  to  try  to  put  a  mask  of 
cheerfulness  and  confidence  over  her  inward  doubt  and  despair  and 
horror. 

When  Captain  Shandon,  at  Boulogne,  read  the  next  number  of 
the  "Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  it  was  to  remark  to  Mrs.  Shandon  that  Jack 
Finucane's  hand  was  no  longer  visible  in  the  leading  articles,  and  that 
Mr.  Warrington  must  be  at  work  there  again.  "  I  know  the  crack  of 
lis  whip  in  a  hundred,  and  the  cut  which  the  fellow's  thong  leaves. 
There's  Jack  Bludyer  goes  to  work  like  a  butcher,  and  mangles  a 
ubject.  Mr.  Warrington  finishes  a  man,  and  lays  his  cuts  neat  and 
egular,  straight  down  the  back,  and  drawing  blood  every  line ; "  at 


512  PEXDENXIS. 

•\vhich  dreadful  metaphor,  Mrs.  Shandon  said,  "  Law,  Charles,  how  can 
you  talk  so  !  I  always  thought  Mr.  Warrington  ver}-  high,  but  a  kind 
gentleman ;  and  I'm  sure  he  was  most  kind  to  the  children."  Upon 
which  Shandon  said,  "  Yes ;  he's  kind  to  the  children ;  but  he's  savage 
to  the  men ;  and  to  be  sure,  my  dear,  you  don't  understand  a  word 
about  what  I'm  saying;  and  it's  best  you  shouldn't;  for  it's  little  good 
comes  out  of  writing  for  newspapers  ;  and  it's  better  here,  living  easy 
at  Boulogne,  where  the  wine's  plenty,  and  the  brandy  costs  but  two 
francs  a  bottle.  Mix  us  another  tumbler,  Mary,  my  dear;  we'll  go 
back  into  harness  soon.  '  Cras  ingens  itcrabimus  asquor ' — bad  luck 
to  it." 

In  a  word,  Warrington  went  to  work  with  all  his  might,  in  place  of 
his  prostrate  friend,  and  did  Pen's  portion  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette  " 
"with  a  vengeance,"  as  the  saying  is.  He  wrote  occasional  articles 
and  literary  criticisms;  he  attended  theatres  and  musical  perform- 
ances, and  discoursed  about  them  with  his  usual  savage  energ)-.  His 
hand  was  too  strong  for  such  small  subjects,  and  it  pleased  him  to  tell 
Arthurs  mother,  and  uncle,  and  Laura,  that  there  was  no  hand  in  all 
the  band  of  penmen  more  graceful  and  light,  more  pleasant  and  more 
elegant,  than  Arthur's.  "  The  people  in  this  countr}',  ma'am,  don't 
understand  what  style  is,  or  they  would  see  the  merits  of  our  young 
one,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Pendennis.  "  I  call  him  ours,  ma'am,  for  I  bred 
him;  and  I  am  as  proud  of  him  as  you  are  ;  and,  bating  a  little  wilful- 
ness, and  a  little  selfishness,  and  a  little  dandification,  I  don't  know  a 
more  honest,  or  loyal,  or  gentle  creature.  His  pen  is  wicked  some- 
times, but  he  is  as  kind  as  a  young  lady— as  Miss  Laura  here,  and  I 
believe  he  would  not  do  any  living  mortal  harm." 

At  this,  Helen,  though  she  heaved  a  deep,  deep  sigh,  and  Laura, 
though  she,  too,  was  sadly  wounded,  nevertheless  were  most  thankful 
for  Warrington's  good  opinion  of  Arthur,  and  loved  him  for  being  so 
attached  to  their  Pen.  And  Major  Pendennis  was  loud  in  his  praises 
of  Mr.  Warrington, — more  loud  and  enthusiastic  than  it  was  the 
Major's  wont  to  be.  "  He  is  a  gentleman,  my  dear  creature,"  he  said 
to  Helen,  "  every  inch  a  gentleman,  my  good  madam — the  Suftblk 
Warringtons — Charles  the  First's  baronets  : — what  could  he  be  but  a 
gentleman,  come  out  of  that  family  ? — father, — Sir  Miles  Warrington  ; 
ran  away  with — beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Bell.  Sir  Miles  was  a  vcr>- 
well-known  man  in  London,  and  a  friend  of  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
This  gentleman  is  a  man  of  the  greatest  talents,  the  very  highest 
accomplishments, — sure  to  get  on,  if  he  had  a  motive  to  put  his 
energies  to  work." 

Laura  blushed  for  herself  whilst  the  Major  was  talking  and  praising 
Arthur's  hero.  As  she  looked  at  ^\'arrington's  manly  face,  and  dark, 
melancholy  eyes,  this  young  person  had  been  speculating  about  him, 


PENDENNIS.  513 

and  had  settled  in  her  mind  that  he  must  have  been  the  victim  of  an 
unhappy  attachment;  and  as  she  caught  herself  so  speculating,  why, 
Miss  Bell  blushed. 

Warrington  got  chambers  hard  by, — Grenier's  chambers  in  Flag 
Court ;  and  having  executed  Pen's  task  with  great  energy  in  the 
morning,  his  delight  and  pleasure  of  an  afternoon  was  to  come  and 
sit  with  the  sick  man's  company  in  the  sunny  autumn  evenings ;  and 
he  had  the  honour  more  than  once  of  giving  Miss  Bell  his  arm  for  a 
walk  in  the  Temple  Gardens ;  to  take  which  pastime,  when  the  frank 
Laura  asked  of  Helen  permission,  the  Major  eagerly  said,  "Yes,  yes, 
begad — of  course  you  go  out  with  him — it's  like  the  country,  you 
know ;  everybody  goes  out  with  everybody  in  the  Gardens,  and  there 
are  beadles,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing — ever>'body  walks  in 
the  Temple  Gardens."  If  the  great  arbiter  of  morals  did  not  object, 
why  should  simple  Helen?  She  was  glad  that  her  girl  should  have 
such  fresh  air  as  the  river  could  give,  and  to  see  her  return  with 
heightened  colour  and  spirits  from  these  harmless  excursions. 

Laura  and  Helen  had  come,  you  must  know,  to  a  little  explanation. 
When  the  news  arrived  of  Pen's  alanning  illness,  Laura  insisted  upon 
accompanying  the  terrified  mother  to  London,  would  not  hear  of  the 
refusal  which  the  still  angry  Helen  gave  her,  and,  when  refused  a 
second  time  yet  more  sternly,  and  when  it  seemed  that  the  poor  lost 
lad's  life  was  despaired  of,  and  when  it  was  known  that  his  conduct 
was  such  as  to  render  all  thoughts  of  union  hopeless,  Laura  had,  with 
many  tears,  told  her  mother  a  secret  with  which  every  observant  person 
who  reads  this  story  is  acquainted  already.  Now  she  never  could 
marry  him,  was  she  to  be  denied  the  consolation  of  owning  how  fondly, 
how  truly,  how  entirely  she  had  loved  him  ?  The  mingling  tears  of 
the  women  appeased  the  agony  of  their  grief  somewhat,  and  the  sorrows 
and  terrors  of  their  journey  were  at  least  in  so  far  mitigated  that  they 
shared  them  together. 

What  could  Fanny  expect  when  suddenly  brought  up  for  sentence 
before  a  couple  of  such  judges?  Nothing  but  swift  condemnation, 
awful  punishment,  merciless  dismissal  !  Women  are  cruel  critics  in 
cases  such  as  that  in  which  poor  Fanny  was  implicated ;  and  we  like 
them  to  be  so ;  for,  besides  the  guard  which  a  man  places  round  his 
own  harem,  and  the  defences  which  a  woman  has  in  her  heart,  her 
faith,  and  honour,  hasn't  she  all  her  own  friends  of  her  own  sex  to  keep 
watch  that  she  does  not  go  astray,  and  to  tear  her  to  pieces  if  she  is 
found  erring  ?  When  our  Mahmouds  or  Selims  of  Baker  Street  or 
Belgrave  Square  visit  their  Fatimas  with  condign  punishment,  their 
mothers  sew  up  Fatima's  sack  for  her,  and  her  sisters  and  sisters-in- 
law  see  her  well  under  water.  And  this  present  writer  does  not  say 
nay;  he  protests  most  solemnly,  he  is  a  Turk  too.     He  wears  a  turban 

33 


5,4  PEN  DENNIS. 

and  a  beard  like  another,  and  is  all  for  the  sack  practice,  Bismillah ! 
Hut,  O  you  spotless,  who  have  the  right  of  capital  punishment  vested 
in  you,  at  least  be  very  cautious  that  you  make  away  with  the  proper 
(if  so  she  may  be  called)  person.  Be  ver>'  sure  of  the  fact  before  you 
order  the  barge  out :  and  don't  pop  your  subject  into  the  Bosphorus, 
until  you  arc  quite  certain  that  she  deserves  it.  This  is  all  I  would 
urge  in  poor  Fatima's  behalf— absolutely  all— not  a  word  more,  by  the 
beard  of  the  Prophet.  If  she's  guilty,  down  with  her — ^heave  over  the 
sack,  away  with  it  into  the  Golden  Horn  bubble  and  squeak,  and 
justice  being  done,  give  way,  men,  and  let  us  pull  back  to  supper. 

So  the  Major  did  not  in  any  way  object  to  Warrington's  continued 
promenades  with  Miss  Laura,  but,  like  a  benevolent  old  gentleman, 
encouraged  in  every  way  the  intimacy  of  that  couple.  Were  there  any 
exhibitions  in  town  ?  he  was  for  Warrington  conducting  her  to  them. 
If  Warrington  had  proposed  to  take  her  to  Vauxhall  itself,  this  most 
complaisant  of  men  would  have  seen  no  harm, — nor  would  Helen,  if 
Pendennis  the  elder  had  so  ruled  it, — nor  would  there  have  been  any 
harm  between  two  persons  whose  honour  was  entirely  spotless, — 
between  Warrington,  who  saw  in  intimacy  a  pure,  and  high-minded, 
and  artless  woman  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, — and  Laura,  who  too 
for  the  first  time  was  thrown  into  the  constant  society  of  a  gentleman 
of  great  natural  parts  and  powers  of  pleasing ;  who  possessed  varied 
acquirements,  enthusiasm,  simplicity,  humour,  and  that  freshness  of 
mind  which  his  simple  life  and  habits  gave  him,  and  which  contrasted 
so  much  with  Pen's  dandy  indifference  of  manner  and  faded  sneer. 
In  Warrington's  very  uncouthness  there  was  a  refinement,  which  the 
other's  finer}-  lacked.  In  his  energy,  his  respect,  his  desire  to  please, 
his  hearty  laughter,  or  simple  confiding  pathos,  what  a  difference  to 
Sultan  Pen's  yawning  sovereignty  and  languid  acceptance  of  homage ! 
What  had  made  Pen  at  home  such  a  dandy  and  such  a  despot?  The 
women  had  spoiled  him,  as  we  like  them  and  as  they  like  to  do.  They 
had  cloyed  him  with  obedience,  and  surfeited  him  wath  sweet  re- 
spect and  submission,  until  he  grew  weary  of  the  slaves  who  waited 
upon  him,  and  their  caresses  and  cajoleries  excited  him  no  more. 
Abroad,  he  was  brisk  and  lively,  and  eager  and  impassioned  enough- 
most  men  are,  so  constituted  and  so  nurtured.— Does  this,  like  the 
former  sentence,  run  a  chance  of  being  misinterpreted,  and  does  any 
one  dare  to  suppose  that  the  writer  would  incite  the  women  to  revolt  ? 
Never,  by  the  whiskers  of  rhe  Prophet,  again  he  says.  He  wears  a 
beard,  and  he  likes  his  women  to  be  slaves.  WTiat  man  doesn't? 
W  hat  man  would  be  henpecked,  I  say  ?  We  will  cut  ofif  all  the  heads 
in  Chnstendom  or  Turkeydom  rather  than  that. 

Well,  then,  Arthur  being  so  languid,  and  indifferent,  and  careless 
about  the  favours  bestowed  upon  him,  how  came  it  that  Laura  should 


PENDENNIS.  515 

have  such  a  love  and  rapturous  regard  for  him,  that  a  mare  inadequate 
expression  of  it  should  have  kept  the  girl  talking  all  the  way  from 
Fairoaks  to  London,  as  she  and  Helen  travelled  in  the  post-chaise? 
As  soon  as  Helen  had  finished  one  story  about  the  dear  fellow,  and 
narrated,  with  a  hundred  sobs  and  ejaculations,  and  looks  up  to 
heaven,  some  thrilling  incidents  which  occurred  about  the  period 
when  the  hero  was  breeched,  Laura  began  another  equally  interesting 
and  equally  ornamented  with  tears,  and  told  how  heroically  he  had  a 
tooth  out  or  wouldn't  have  it  out,  or  how  daringly  he  robbed  a  bird's 
nest,  or  how  magnanimously  he  spared  it;  or  how  he  gave  a  shilling 
to  the  old  woman  on  the  common,  or  went  without  his  bread  and 
butter  for  the  beggar-boy  who  came  into  the  yard — and  so  on.  One 
to  another  the  sobbing  women  sang  laments  upon  their  hero,  who, 
my  worthy  reader  has  long  since  perceived,  is  no  more  a  hero  than 
either  one  of  us.  Being  as  he  was,  why  should  a  sensible  girl  be  so 
fond  of  him  ? 

This  point  has  been  argued  before  in  a  previous  unfortunate  sen- 
tence (which  lately  drew  down  all  the  wrath  of  Ireland  upon  the  writer's 
head),  and  which  said  that  the  greatest  rascal-cutthroats  have  had 
somebody  to  be  fond  of  them,  and  if  those  monsters,  why  not  ordinary 
mortals  ?  And  with  whom  shall  a  young  lady  fall  in  love  but  with  the 
person  she  sees.-*  She  is  not  supposed  to  lose  her  heart  in  a  dream, 
like  a  Princess  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights;  "  or  to  plight  her  young  affec- 
tions to  the  portrait  of  a  gentleman  in  the  Exhibition,  or  a  sketch  in 
the  "  Illustrated  London  News."  You  have  an  instinct  within  you 
which  inclines  you  to  attach  yourself  to  some  one :  you  meet  Some- 
body :  you  hear  Somebody  constantly  praised :  you  walk,  or  ride,  or 
waltz,  or  talk,  or  sit  in  the  same  pew  at  church  with  Somebody :  you 
meet  again,  and  again,  and — "  Marriages  are  made  in  Heaven,"  your  , 
dear  mamma  says,  pinning  your  orange-flower  wreath  on,  with  her 
blessed  eyes  dimmed  with  tears — and  there  is  a  wedding-breakfast, 
and  you  take  off  your  white  satin  and  retire  to  your  coach-and-four, 
and  you  and  he  are  a  happy  pair. — Or,  the  affair  is  broken  off,  and 
then,  poor  dear  wounded  heart !  why  then  you  meet  Somebody  Else, 
and  twine  your  young  affections  round  number  two.  It  is  your  nature 
so  to  do.  Do  you  suppose  it  is  all  for  the  man's  sake  that  you  love, 
and  not  a  bit  for  your  own .?  Do  you  suppose  you  would  drink  if  you 
were  not  thirsty,  or  eat  if  you  were  not  hungry  ? 

So  then  Laura  liked  Pen  because  she  saw  scarcely  anybody  else  at 
Fairoaks  except  Doctor  Portman  and  Captain  Glanders,  and  because 
his  mother  constantly  praised  her  Arthur,  and  because  he  was  gentle- 
man-like, tolerably  good-looking  and  witty,  and  because,  above  all,  it 
was  of  her  nature  to  like  somebody.  And  having  once  received  this 
image  into  her  heart,  she  there  tenderly  nursed  it  and  clasped  it     -ihe 


5,6  PEA'DENNIS. 

there,  in  his  long  absences  and  her  constant  solitudes,  silently  brooded 
over  it  and  fondled  it— and  when  after  this  she  came  to  London,  and 
lind  an  opportunity  of  becoming  rather  intimate  with  Mr.  George 
Warrington,  what  on  earth  was  to  prevent  her  from  thinking  him  a 
most  odd,  original,  agreeable,  and  pleasing  person  ? 

A  lono-  time  afterwards,  when  these  days  were  over,  and  Fate  in  its 
own  way  had  disposed  of  the  various  persons  now  assembled  in  the 
ding}'  building  in  Lamb  Court,  perhaps  some  of  them  looked  back  and 
thou"-ht  how  happy  the  time  was,  and  how  pleasant  had  been  their 
evening  talks  and  little  walks  and  simple  recreations  round  the  sofa  of 
Pen  the  convalescent.  The  Major  had  a  favourable  opinion  of  Sep- 
tember in  London  from  that  time  forward,  and  declared  at  his  clubs 
and  in  society  that  the  dead  season  in  town  was  often  pleasant,  doosed 
pleasant,'  begad!  He  used  to  go  home  to  his  lodgings  in  Bury  Street 
of  a  night,  wondering  that  it  was  already  so  late,  and  that  the  evening 
had  passed  away  so  quietly.  He  made  his  appearance  at  the  Temple 
pretty  constantly  in  the  afternoon,  and  tugged  up  the  long  black  stair- 
case with  quite  a  benevolent  activity  and  perseverance.  And  he  made 
interest  with  the  chef  at  Bays's  (that  renowned  cook,  the  superin- 
tendence of  whose  work  upon  Gastronomy  compelled  the  gifted  author 
to  stay  in  the  metropolis),  to  prepare  little  jellies,  delicate  clear  soups, 
aspics,  and  other  trifles  good  for  invalids,  which  Morgan  the  valet 
constantly  brought  down  to  the  little  Lamb  Court  colony.  And  the 
permission  to  drink  a  glass  or  two  of  pure  sherr)-  being  accorded  to 
Pen  by  Doctor  Goodenough,  the  Major  told  with  almost  tears  in  his 
eyes  how  his  noble  friend  the  Marquis  of  Steyne,  passing  through 
London  on  his  way  to  the  Continent,  had  ordered  any  quantity  of  his 
precious,  his  priceless  Amontillado,  that  had  been  a  present  from 
King  Ferdinand  to  the  noble  Marquis,  to  be  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis.  The  widow  and  Laura  tasted  it  with  respect 
(though  they  didn't  in  the  least  like  the  bitter  flavour),  but  the  invalid 
was  greatly  invigorated  by  it,  and  Warrington  pronounced  it  super- 
latively good,  and  proposed  the  Major's  health  in  a  mock  speech  after 
dinner  on  the  first  day  when  the  wine  was  served,  and  that  of  Lord 
Steyne  and  the  aristocracy  in  general. 

Major  Pendennis  returned  thanks  with  the  utmost  gravity,  and  in 
a  speech  in  which  he  used  the  words  "  the  present  occasion,"  at  least 
the  proper  number  of  times.  Pen  cheered  with  his  feeble  voice  from 
his  arm-chair.  Warrington  taught  Miss  Laura  to  cry  "  Hear!  hear!  " 
and  tapped  the  table  with  his  knuckles.  Pidgeon  the  attendant 
grinned,  and  honest  Doctor  Goodenough  found  the  party  so  merrily 
engaged,  when  he  came  in  to  pay  his  faithful  gratuitous  visit 

Warrington  knew  Sibwright,  who  lived  below,  and  that  gallant 
gentleman,  in  reply  to  a  letter  informing  him  of  the  use  to  which  his 


PENDENNIS.  517 

apartments  had  been  put,  wrote  back  the  most  polite  and  flowery  letter 
of  acquiescence.  He  placed  his  chambers  at  the  service  of  their  fair 
occupants,  his  bed  at  their  disposal,  his  carpets  at  their  feet.  Every- 
body was  kindly  disposed  towards  the  sick  man  and  his  family.  His 
heart  (and  his  mother's  too,  as  we  may  fancy)  melted  within  him  at 
the  thought  of  so  much  good  feeling  and  good  nature.  Let  Pen's 
biographer  be  pardoned  for  alluding  to  a  time  not  far  distant  when  a 
somewhat  similar  mishap  brought  him  a  providential  friend,  a  kind 
physician,  and  a  thousand  proofs  of  a  most  touching  and  surprising 
kindness  and  sympathy. 

There  was  a  piano  in  Mr.  Sibwright's  chamber  (indeed  this  gentle- 
man, a  lover  of  all  the  arts,  performed  himself — and  exceedingly  ill 
too — upon  the  instrument ;  and  had  had  a  song  dedicated  to  him — the 
words  by  himself,  the  air  by  his  devoted  friend  Leopoldo  Twankidillo) 
—  and  at  this  music-box,  as  Mr.  Warrington  called  it,  Laura,  at  first 
with  a  great  deal  of  tremor  and  blushing  (which  became  her  very 
much),  played  and  sang,  sometimes  of  an  evening,  simple  airs,  and  old 
songs  of  home.  Her  voice  was  a  rich  contralto,  and  Warrington,  who 
scarcely  knew  one  tune  from  another,  and  who  had  but  one  tune  or 
bray  in  his  repertoire, — a  most  discordant  imitation  of  "  God  save  the 
King," — sat  rapt  in  delight  listening  to  these  songs.  He  could  follow 
their  rhythm  if  not  their  hannony;  and  he  could  watch,  with  a  con- 
stant and  daily  growing  enthusiasm,  the  pure  and  tender  and  generous 
creature  who  made  the  music. 

I  wonder  how  that  poor  pale  little  girl  in  the  black  bonnet,  who  used 
to  stand  at  the  lamp-post  in  Lamb  Court  sometimes  of  an  evening, 
looking  up  to  the  open  windows  from  which  the  music  came,  liked  to 
hear  it  ?  When  Pen's  bed-time  came  the  songs  were  hushed.  Lights 
appeared  in  the  upper  room :  his  room,  whither  the  widow  used  to  con- 
duct him ;  and  then  the  Major  and  Mr.  Warrington,  and  sometimes 
Miss  Laura,  would  have  a  game  at  ecarte  or  backgammon ;  or  she  would 
sit  by  working  a  pair  of  slippers  in  worsted — a  pair  of  gentleman's  slip- 
pers— they  might  have  been  for  Arthur  or  for  George  or  for  Major  Pen 
dennis:  one  of  those  three  would  have  given  anything  for  the  slippers, 

Whilst  such  business  as  this  was  going  on  within,  a  rather  shabby 
old  gentleman  would  come  and  lead  away  the  pale  girl  in  the  black 
bonnet,  who  had  no  right  to  be  abroad  in  the  night  air,  and  the  Temple 
porters,  the  few  laundresses,  and  other  amateurs  who  had  been  listen- 
ing to  the  concert,  would  also  disappear. 

Just  before  ten  o'clock  there  was  another  musical  performance, 
namely  that  of  the  chimes  of  St.  Clement's  clock  in  the  Strand,  which 
played  the  clear  cheerful  notes  of  a  psalm,  before  it  proceeded  to  ring 
its  ten  fatal  strokes.  As  they  were  ringing,  Laura  began  to  fold  up  the 
slippers;  Martha  from  Fairoaks  appeared  with  a  bed-candle,  and  a 


51 S  PENDENNIS. 

constant  smile  on  her  face ;  the  Major  said,  "  God  bless  my  soul,  is  it 
so  late  ? "  Warrington  and  he  left  their  unfinished  game,  and  got  up 
and  shook  hands  with  Miss  Bell.  Martha  from  Fairoaks  lighted  them 
out  of  the  passage  and  down  the  stair,  and,  as  they  descended,  they 
could  hear  her  bolting  and  locking  "  the  sporting  door "  after  them, 
upon  her  young  mistress  and  herself.  If  there  had  been  any  danger, 
grinning  Martha  said  she  would  have  got  down  "  that  thar  hooky 
sword  which  hung  up  in  gantleman's  room," — meaning  the  Damascus 
scimetar  with  the  name  of  the  Prophet  engraved  on  the  blade,  and  the 
red-veh'et  scabbard,  which  Percy  Sibwright,  Esquire,  brought  back 
from  his  tour  in  the  Levant,  along  with  an  Albanian  dress,  and  which 
he  wore  with  such  elegant  effect  at  Lady  Mullingars  fancy  ball, 
Gloucester  Square,  Hyde  Park.  It  entangled  itself  in  Miss  Kewseys 
train,  who  appeared  in  the  dress  in  which  she,  with  her  mamma,  had 
been  presented  to  their  sovereign  (the  latter  by  the  L — d  Ch-nc-11-r's 
lady),  and  led  to  ev^ents  which  have  nothing  to  do  with  this  histon-. 
Is  not  Miss  Kewsey  now  Mrs.  Sibwright?  Has  Sibwright  not  got  a 
county  court  ? — Good  night,  Laura  and  Fairoaks  Martha.  Sleep  well 
ind  wake  happy,  pure  and  gentle  lady. 

Sometimes  after  these  evenings  Warrington  would  walk  a  little  way 
with  Major  Pendennis— just  a  little  way — ^just  as  far  as  the  Temple 
gate — as  the  Strand — as  Charing  Cross — as  the  Club — he  was  not 
going  into  the  Club  ?  Well,  as  far  as  Bury  Street,  where  he  would 
laughingly  shake  hands  on  the  ^Major's  own  door-step.  They  had 
been  talking  about  Laura  all  the  way.  It  was  wonderful  how  enthu- 
siastic the  Major,  who,  as  we  know,  used  to  dislike  her,  had  grown  to 
be  regarding  the  young  lady. — "  Dev'lish  fine  girl,  begad.  Devlish 
well-mannered  girl — my  sister-in-law  has  the  manners  of  a  duchess 
and  would  bring  up  any  girl  well.  Miss  Bell's  a  little  countryfied. 
But  the  smell  of  the  hawthorn  is  pleasant,  demmy.  How  she  blushes. 
Your  London  girls  would  give  many  a  guinea  for  a  bouquet  like  that — 
natural  flowers,  begad !  And  she's  a  little  money  too — nothing  to  speak 
of^but  a  pooty  little  bit  of  money."  In  all  which  opinions  no  doubt 
Mr.  Warrington  agreed;  and  though  he  laughed  as  he  shook  hands 
with  the  Major,  his  face  fell  as  he  left  his  veteran  companion ;  and  he 
strode  back  to  chambers,  and  smoked  pipe  after  pipe  long  into  the 
night,  and  wTOte  article  upon  article,  more  and  more  savage,  in  lieu  of 
friend  Pen  disabled. 

Well,  it  was  a  happy  time  for  almost  all  parties  concerned.  Pen 
mended  daily.  Sleeping  and  eating  were  his  constant  occupations. 
His  appetite  was  something  frightful.  He  was  ashamed  of  exhibiting  it 
before  Laura,  and  almost  before  his  mother,  who  laughed  and  applauded 
him.  As  the  roast  chicken  of  his  dinner  went  away  he  eyed  the  depart- 
ing f;  lend  with  sad  longing,  and  began  to  long  for  jelly  or  tea,  or  what 


PENDENNIS.  519 

not.  He  was  like  an  ogre  in  devouring.  The  Doctor  cried  stop,  but 
Pen  would  not.  Nature  called  out  to  him  more  loudly  than  the  Doctor, 
and  that  kind  and  friendly  physician  handed  him  over  with  a  very  good 
grace  to  the  other  healer. 

And  here  let  us  speak  very  tenderly  and  in  the  strictest  confidence 
of  an  event  which  befel  him,  and  to  which  he  never  liked  an  allusion. 
During  his  delirium  the  ruthless  Goodenough  ordered  ice  to  be  put  to 
his  head,  and  all  his  lovely  hair  to  be  cut.  It  was  done  in  the  time  of 
— of  the  other  nurse,  who  left  every  single  hair  of  course  in  a  paper  for 
the  widow  to  count  and  treasure  up.  She  never  believed  but  that  the 
girl  had  taken  away  some  of  it,  but  then  women  are  so  suspicious  upon 
these  matters. 

When  this  direful  loss  was  made  visible  to  Major  Pendennis,  as  of 
course  it  was  the  first  time  the  elder  saw  the  poor  young  man's  shorn 
pate,  and  when  Pen  was  quite  out  of  danger,  and  gaining  daily  vigour, 
the  Major,  with  something  like  blushes  and  a  queer  wink  of  his  eyes, 
said  he  knew  of  a — a  person — a  coiffeur,  in  fact — a  good  man,  whom 
he  would  send  down  to  the  Temple,  and  who  would — a — apply — a — a 
temporary  remedy  to  that  misfortune. 

Laura  looked  at  Warrington  with  the  archest  sparkle  in  her  eyes — 
Warrington  fairly  burst  out  into  a  boohoo  of  laughter :  even  the  widow 
was  obliged  to  laugh ;  and  the  Major  erubescent  confounded  the  impu- 
dence of  the  young  folks,  and  said  when  he  had  his  hair  cut  he  would 
keep  a  lock  of  it  for  Miss  Laura. 

Warrington  voted  that  Pen  should  wear  a  barrister's  wig.  There 
was  Sibwright's  down  below,  which  would  become  him  hugely.  Pen 
said  "  Stuff,"  and  seemed  as  confused  as  his  uncle;  and  the  end  was 
that  a  gentleman  from  Burlington  Arcade  waited  next  day  upon  Mr. 
Pendennis,  and  had  a  private  interview  with  him  in  his  bed-room ;  and 
a  week  afterwards  the  same  individual  appeared  with  a  box  under  his 
arm,  and  an  ineffable  grin  of  politeness  on  his  face,  and  announced  that 
he  had  brought  'ome  Mr.  Pendennis's  'ead  of  'air. 

It  must  have  been  a, grand  but  melancholy  sight  to  see  Pen  in  the 
recesses  of  his  apartment,  sadly  contemplating  his  ravaged  beauty  and 
the  artificial  means  of  hiding  its  ruin.  He  appeared  at  length  in  the 
'ead  of  'air ;  but  Warrington  laughed  so  that  Pen  grew  sulky,  and  went 
back  for  his  velvet  cap,  a  neat  turban  which  the  fondest  of  mammas 
had  worked  for  him.  Then  Mr.  Warrington  and  Miss  Bell  got  some 
flowers  off  the  ladies'  bonnets  and  made  a  wreath,  with  which  they 
decorated  the  wig  and  brought  it  out  in  procession,  and  did  homage 
before  it.  In  fact  they  indulged  in  a  hundred  sports,  jocularities, 
waggeries,  2Ln6.  petits  jeux  innocens:  so  that  the  second  and  third  floors 
of  Number  6,  Lamb  Court,  Temple,  rang  with  more  cheerfulness  and 
laughter  than  had  been  known  in  those  precincts  for  many  a  long  day. 


520  PE.XDEXyiS. 

At  last,  after  about  ten  days  of  this  life,  one  evening  when  the  little 
spy  of  the  court  came  out  to  take  her  usual  post  of  observation  at  the 
lamp,  there  was  no  music  from  the  second-floor  window,  there  were  no 
lights  in  the  third-story  chambers,  the  windows  of  each  were  open,  and 
the  occupants  were  gone.  Mrs.  Flanagan,  the  laundress,  told  Fanny 
what  had  happened.  The  ladies  and  all  the  party  had  gone  to  Rich- 
mond for  change  of  air.  The  antique  travelling  chariot  was  brought 
out  again  and  cushioned  with  many  pillows  for  Pen  and  his  mother  ; 
and  Miss  Laura  went  in  the  most  affable  manner  in  the  omnibus 
under  the  guardianship  of  Mr.  George  Warrington.  He  came  back 
and  took  possession  of  his  old  bed  that  night  in  the  vacant  and  cheer- 
less chambers,  and  to  his  old  books  and  his  old  pipes,  but  not  perhaps 
to  his  old  sleep. 

The  widow  had  left  a  jar  full  of  flowers  upon  his  table,  prettily 

arranged,   and  when  he  entered   they  filled  the   solitary  room  with 

odour.     They  were  memorials  of  the  kind,  gentle  souls  who  had  gone 

away,  and  who  had  decorated  for  a  little  while  that  lonely  cheerless 

place.     He  had  had  the  happiest  days  of  his  whole  life,  George  felt 

— he  knew  it  now  they  were  just  gone :    he  went   and  took  up  the 

flowers  and  put  his  face  to  them,  smelt  them — perhaps  kissed  them. 

As  he  put  them  down,  he  rubbed  his  rough  hand  across  his  eyes  with 

a  bitter  word  and  laugh.     He  would  have  given  his  whole  life  and  soul 

to  win  that  prize  which  Arthur  rejected.     Did  she  want  fame  ?     He 

would  have  won  it  for  her  : — devotion  ; — a  great  heart  full  of  pent-up 

tenderness  and  manly  love  and  gentleness  was  there  for  her,  if  she 

might   take   it.      But  it   might   not   be.      Fate  had   ruled   otherwise. 

"  Even  if  I  could,  she  would  not  have  me,"  George  thought     "  What 

has  an  ugly,  rough  old  fellow  like  me,  to  make  any  woman  like  him  ? 

I'm  getting  old,  and  I  have  made  no  mark  in  life.     I've  neither  good 

looks,  nor  youth,  nor  money,  nor  reputation.     A  man  must  be  able  to 

do  something  besides  stare  at  her  and  offer  on  his  knees  his  uncouth 

devotion,  to  make  a  woman  like  him.     What  can  I  do.''     Lots  of  young 

fellows  have  passed  me  in  the  race — what  they  call  the  prizes  of  life 

didn't  seem  to  me  worth  the  trouble  of  the  struggle.     But  for  her.     If 

she  had  been  mine  and  liked  a  diamond — ah  !  shouldn't  she  have 

worn  it  !     Psha,  what  a  fool  I  am  to  brag  of  what  I  would  have  done  I 

We  are  the  slaves  of  destiny.     Our  lots  are  shaped  for  us,  and  mine 

is  ordained  long  ago.     Come,  let  us  have  a  pipe,  and  put  the  smell 

of  these  flowers  out  of  court.     Poor  little  silent  flowers  !     You"ll  be 

dead  to-morrow.     What  business  had  you  to  show  your  red  cheeks  in 

this  dingy  place  ? " 

By  his  bed-side  George  found  a  new  Bible  which  the  widow  had 
placed  there,  with  a  note  inside  saying  that  she  had  not  seen  the  book 
amongst  his  collection  in  a  room  where  she  had  spent  a  number  of 


PENDENNIS.  521 

hours,  and  where  God  had  vouchsafed  to  her  prayers  the  life  of  her 
son,  and  that  she  gave  to  Arthur's  friend  the  best  thing  she  could,  and 
besought  him  to  read  in  the  volume  sometimes,  and  to  keep  it  as  a 
token  of  a  grateful  mother's  regard  and  affection.  Poor  George 
mournfully  kissed  the  book  as  he  had  done  the  flowers ;  and  the 
morning  found  him  still  reading  in  its  awful  pages,  in  which  so  many 
stricken  hearts,  in  which  so  many  tender  and  faithful  souls  have  found 
comfort  under  calamity,  and  refuge  and  hope  in  affliction. 


523  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   LIV. 

fanny's  occupation's  gone. 

GOOD  Helen,  ever  since  her  son's  illness,  had  taken,  as  we  have 
seen,  entire  possession  of  the  young  man,  of  his  drawers  and 
closets  and  all  which  they  contained:  whether  shirts  that  wanted 
buttons,  or  stockings  that  required  mending,  or,  must  it  be  owned  ? 
letters  that  lay  amongst  those  articles  of  raiment,  and  which  of  course 
it  was  necessar}'  that  somebody  should  answer  during  Arthur's  weakened 
and  incapable  condition.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Pendennis  was  laudably 
desirous  to  have  some  explanations  about  the  dreadful  Fanny  Bolton 
myster)',  regarding  which  she  had  never  breathed  a  word  to  her  son, 
though  it  was  present  in  her  mind  always,  and  occasioned  her  in- 
expressible anxiety  and  disquiet.  She  had  caused  the  brass  knocker 
to  be  screwed  oft"  the  inner  door  of  the  chambers,  whereupon  the  post- 
man's startling  double  rap  would,  as  she  justly  argued,  disturb  the  rest 
of  her  patient,  and  she  did  not  allow  him  to  see  any  letter  which 
arrived,  whether  from  boot-makers  who  importuned  him,  or  hatters 
who  had  a  heavy  account  to  make  up  against  next  Saturday,  and  would 
be  very  much  obliged  if  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  would  have  the  kind- 
ness to  settle,  &c.  Of  these  documents.  Pen,  who  was  always  free- 
handed and  careless,  of  course  had  his  share,  and  though  no  great  one, 
one  quite  enough  to  alarm  his  scrupulous  and  conscientious  mother. 
She  had  some  savangs;  Pen's  magnificent  self-denial,  and  her  own 
economy,  amounting  from  her  great  simplicity  and  avoidance  of  show 
to  parsimony  almost,  had  enabled  her  to  put  by  a  little  sum  of  money, 
a  part  of  which  she  delightedly  consecrated  to  the  paying  off  the  young 
gentleman's  obligations.  At  this  price,  many  a  worthy  youth  and 
respected  reader  would  hand  over  his  correspondence  to  his  parents ; 
and  perhaps  there  is  no  greater  test  of  a  man's  regularity  and  easiness 
of  conscience,  than  his  readiness  to  face  the  postman.  Blessed  is  he 
who  is  made  happy  by  the  sound  of  a  rat-tat !  The  good  are  eager  for 
it :  but  the  naughty  tremble  at  the  sound  thereof.  So  it  was  ver>'  kind 
of  Mrs.  Pendennis  doubly  to  spare  Pen  the  trouble  of  hearing  or  answer- 
ing letters  during  his  illness. 

There  could  have  been  nothing  in  the  young  man's  chests   of 
drawers  and  wardrobes  which  could  be  considered  as  inculpating  him 


PENDENNIS.  523 

in  any  way,  nor  any  satisfactory  documents  regarding  the  Fanny 
Bolton  affair  found  there,  for  the  widow  had  to  ask  her  brother-in-law 
if  he  knew  anything  about  the.  odious  transaction,  and  the  dreadful 
intrigue  in  which  her  son  was  engaged.  When  they  were  at  Rich- 
mond one  day,  and  Pen  with  Warrington  had  taken  a  seat  on  a  bench 
on  the  terrace,  the  widow  kept  Major  Pendennis  in  consultation,  and 
laid  her  terrors  and  perplexities  before  him,  such  of  them  at  least  (for 
as  is  the  wont  of  men  and  women,  she  did  not  make  quite  a  clean 
confession  :  and  I  suppose  no  spendthrift  asked  for  a  schedule  of  his 
debts,  no  lady  of  fashion  asked  by  her  husband  for  her  dress-maker's 
bills,  ever  sent  in  the  whole  of  them  yet) — such,  we  say,  of  her  per- 
plexities, at  least,  as.  she  chose  to  confide  to  her  Director  for  the  time 
being. 

When,  then,  she  asked  the  Major  what  course  she  ought  to  pursue, 
about  this  dreadful — this  horrid  affair,  and  whether  he  knew  anything 
regarding  it .''  the  old  gentleman  puckered  up  his  face,  so  that  you 
could  not  tell  whether  he  was  smiling  or  not ;  gave  the  widow  one 
queer  look  with  his  little  eyes ;  cast  them  down  to  the  carpet  again, 
and  said,  "  My  dear,  good  creature,  I  don't  know  anything  about  it ; 
and  I  don't  wish  to  know  anything  about  it ;  and,  as  you  ask  me  my 
opinion,  I  think  you  had  best  know  nothing  about  it  too.  Young  men 
will  be  young  men ;  and,  begad,  my  good  ma'am,  if  you  think  our  boy 
is  a  Jo — " 

"  Pray,  spare  me  this,"  Helen  broke  in,  looking  very  stately. 

"  My  dear  creature,  I  did  not  commence  the  conversation,  permit 
me  to  say,"  the  Major  said,  bowing  very  blandly. 

"  I  can't  bear  to  hear  such  a  sin — such  a  dreadful  sin — spoken  of 
in  such  a  way,"  the  widow  said,  with  tears  of  annoyance  starting  from 
her  eyes.  "  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  my  boy  should  commit  such  a 
crime.  I  wish  he  had  died,  almost,  before  he  had  done  it.  I  don't 
know  how  I  survive  it  myself;  for  it  is  breaking  my  heart.  Major 
Pendennis,  to  think  that  his  father's  son — my  child — whom  I  remem- 
ber so  good — oh,  so  good,  and  full  of  honour ! — should  be  fallen  so 
dreadfully  low,  as  to — as  to — " 

"  As  to  flirt  with  a  little  grisette,  my  dear  creature  ? "  said  the 
Majot.  "  Egad,  if  all  the  mothers  in  England  were  to  break  their 
hearts  because — Nay,  nay;  upon  my  word  and  honour,  now,  don't 
agitate  yourself,  don't  cry.  I  can't  bear  to  see  a  woman's  tears — I 
never  could — never.  But  how  do  we  know  that  anything  serious  has 
happened }     Has  Arthur  said  anything  .f"' 

"  His  silence  confirms  it,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Pendennis,  behind  her 
pocket-handkerchief. 

"  Not  at  all.  There  are  subjects,  my  dear,  about  which  a  young 
fellow  cannot  surely  talk  to  his  mamma,"  insinuated  the  brother-in-law. 


524 


PENDENNIS. 


"  She  has  written  to  him,"  cried  the  lady,  behind  the  cambric. 

"  What,  before  he  was  ill  ?     Nothing  more  likely." 

"  No,  since,"'  the  mourner  with  the  batiste  mask  gasped  out ;  "  not 
before;  that  is,  I  don't  think  so — that  is,  I—" 

"  Only  since ;  and  you  have — yes,  I  understand.  I  suppose  when 
he  was  too  ill  to  read  his  own  correspondence,  you  took  charge  of  it, 
did  you  .'' "' 

"  1  am  the  most  unhappy  mother  in  the  world,"  cried  out  the 
unfortunate  Helen. 

"  The  most  unhappy  mother  in  the  world,  because  your  son  is  a 
man  and  not  a  hermit !  Have  a  care,  my  dear  sister.  If  you  have 
suppressed  any  letters  to  him,  you  may  have  done  yourself  a  great 
injury ;  and,  if  I  know  anything  of  Arthur's  spirit,  may  cause  a 
difference  between  him  and  you,  which  you'll  rue  all  your  life — a 
difference  that's  a  dev'lish  deal  more  important,  my  good  madam, 
than  the  little — little — trumperj-  cause  which  originated  it." 

"  There  was  only  one  letter,"  broke  out  Helen, — "  only  a  verj' 
little  one — only  a  few  words.  Here  it  is — oh — how  can  you,  how  can 
you  speak  so  ? " 

When  the  good  soul  said  only  "  a  ver)-  little  one,"  the  Major  could 
not  speak  at  all,  so  inclined  was  he  to  laugh,  in  spite  of  the  agonies  of 
the  poor  soul  before  him,  and  for  whom  he  had  a  hearty  pity  and  liking 
too.  But  each  was  looking  at  the  matter  with  his  or  her  peculiar  eyes 
and  view  of  morals,  and  the  Majors  morals,  as  the  reader  knows,  were 
not  those  of  an  ascetic. 

"  I  recommend  you,"  he  gravely  continued,  "  if  you  can,  to  seal  it 
up — those  letters  ain't  unfrequently  sealed  with  wafers — and  to  put 
it  amongst  Pen's  other  letters,  and  let  him  have  them  when  he  calls  for 
them.     Or  if  we  can't  seal  it,  we  mistook  it  for  a  bill." 

"  I  can't  tell  my  son  a  lie,"  said  the  widow.  It  had  been  put 
silently  into  the  letter-box  two  days  previous  to  their  departure  from 
the  Temple,  and  had  been  brought  to  Mrs.  Pendennis  by  Martha. 
She  had  never  seen  Fanny's  handwriting,  of  course;  but  when  the 
letter  was  put  into  her  hands,  she  knew  the  author  at  once.  She  had 
been  on  the  watch  for  that  letter  every  day  since  Pen  had  been  ill. 
She  had  opened  some  of  his  other  letters  because  she  wanted  to  get 
at  that  one.  She  had  the  horrid  paper  poisoning  her  bag  at  that 
moment.     She  took  it  out  and  offered  it  to  her  brother-in-law. 

"  Arther  Pendennis,  Esq.,"  he  read,  in  a  timid  little  sprawling 
handwriting,  and  with  a  sneer  on  his  face.  "  No,  my  dear,  I  won't 
read  any  more.  But  you,  who  have  read  it,  may  tell  me  what  the 
letter  contains— only  prayers  for  his  health  in  bad  spelling,  you  say— 
and  a  desire  to  see  him  ?  Well— there's  no  harm  in  that.'  And  as 
you  ask  me  "'—here  the  Major  began  to  look  a  little  queer  for  his  own 


PENDENMS.  525 

part,  and  put  on  his  demure  look — "  as  you  ask  me,  my  dear,  for 
information,  why,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that— ah — that — Morgan, 
my  man,  has  made  some  inquiries  regarding  this  affair,  and  that — my 
friend  Doctor  Goodenough  also  looked  into  it — and  it  appears  that 
this  person  was  greatly  smitten  with  Arthur;  that  he  paid  for  her  and 
took  her  to  Vauxhall  Gardens,  as  Morgan  heard  from  an  old  acquaint- 
ance of  Pen's  and  ours,  an  Irish  gentleman,  who  was  very  nearly 
once  having  the  honour  of  being  the — from  an  Irishman,  in  fact ; — that 
the  girl's  father,  a  violent  man  of  intoxicated  habits,  has  beaten  her 
mother,  who  persists  in  declaring  her  daughter's  entire  innocence  to 
her  husband  on  the  one  hand,  while  on  the  other  she  told  Goodenough 
that  Arthur  had  acted  like  a  brute  to  her  child.  And  so  you  see  the 
story  remains  in  a  mystery.  Will  you  have  it  cleared  up  1  I  have 
but  to  ask  Pen,  and  he  will  tell  me  at  once ;  he  is  as  honourable  a  man 
as  ever  lived." 

"  Honourable !  "  said  the  widow,  with  bitter  scorn.  "  Oh,  brother, 
what  is  this  you  call  honour  ?  If  my  boy  has  been  guilty,  he  must  marry 
her.     I  would  go  down  on  my  knees,  and  pray  him  to  do  so." 

"  Good  God !  are  you  mad .'"'  screamed  out  the  Major;  and  remem- 
bering former  passages  in  Arthur's  history  and  Helen's,  the  truth  came 
across  his  mind  that,  were  Helen  to  make  this  prayer  to  her  son,  he 
would  marry  the  girl  :  he  was  wild  enough  and  obstinate  enough  to 
commit  any  folly  when  a  woman  he  loved  was  in  the  case.  "  My  dear 
sister,  have  you  lost  your  senses?"  he  continued  (after  an  agitated 
pause,  during  which  the  above  dreary  reflection  crossed  him) ;  and  in 
a  softened  tone,  "  What  right  have  we  to  suppose  that  anything  has 
passed  between  this  girl  and  him  }  Lef  s  see  the  letter.  Her  heart  is 
breaking ;  pray,  pray,  write  to  me — home  unhappy — unkind  father — 
your  nurse — poor  little  Fanny— spelt,  as  you  say,  in  a  manner  to  out- 
rage all  sense  of  decorum.  But,  good  heavens !  my  dear,  what  is  there 
in  this  ?  only  that  the  little  devil  is  making  love  to  him  still.  Why,  she 
didn't  come  into  his  chambers  until  he  was  so  delirious  that  he  didn't 
know  her.  What-d'you-call'em,  Flanagan,  the  laundress,  told  Morgan 
my  man,  so.  She  came  in  company  of  an  old  fellow,  an  old  Mr.  Bows 
who  came  most  kindly  down  to  Stillbrook  and  brought  me  away — by 
the  way,  I  left  him  in  the  cab,  and  never  paid  the  fare ;  and  dev'lish 
kind  it  was  of  him.     No,  there's  nothing  in  the  story." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Thank  Heaven — thank  God ! "  Helen  cried. 
"  I'll  take  the  letter  to  Arthur  and  ask  him  now.  Look  at  him  there. 
He's  on  the  terrace  with  Mr.  Warrington.  They  are  talking  to  some 
children.  My  boy  was  always  fond  of  children.  He's  innocent,  thank 
God — thank  God !     Let  me  go  to  him." 

Old  Pendennis  had  his  own  opinion.  When  he  briskly  took  the 
not  guilty  side  of  the  case  but  a  moment  before,  very  likely  the  old 


526  PEXDEXNIS. 

gentleman  had  a  diflferent  view  from  that  which  he  chose  to  advocate, 
and  judged  of  Arthur  by  what  he  himself  would  have  done.  If  she  goes 
to  Arthur,  and  he  speaks  the  truth,  as  the  rascal  will,  it  spoils  all,  he 
thought.     And  he  tried  one  more  effort. 

"  My  dear,  good  soul,"  he  said,  taking  Helen's  hand,  and  kissing  it, 
"  as  your  son  has  not  acquainted  you  with  this  affair,  think  if  you  have 
any  right  to  examine  it.  As  you  believe  him  to  be  a  man  of  honour, 
what  right  have  you  to  doubt  his  honour  in  this  instance.  Who  is  his 
accuser  ?  An  anonymous  scoundrel  who  has  brought  no  specific  charge 
against  him.  If  there  were  any  such,  wouldn't  the  girl's  parents  have 
come  forward?  He  is  not  called  upon  to  rebut,  nor  you  to  entertain 
an  anonymous  accusation ;  and  as  for  believing  him  guilty  because  a 
girl  of  that  rank  happened  to  be  in  his  rooms  acting  as  nurse  to  him, 
begad  you  might  as  well  insist  upon  his  marrying  that  dem'd  old  Irish 
gin-drinking  laundress,  Mrs.  Flanagan." 

The  widow  burst  out  laughing  through  her  tears — the  victor)-  was 
gained  by  the  old  general. 

"  Marr)-  Mrs.  Flanagan,  by  Ged,"  he  continued,  tapping  her  slender 
hand.  "  No.  The  boy  has  told  you  nothing  about  it,  and  you  know 
nothing  about  it.  The  boy  is  innocent — of  course.  And  what,  my  good 
soul,  is  the  course  for  us  to  pursoo .-'  Suppose  he  is  attached  to  this 
girl — don't  look  sad  again,  it's  merely  a  supposition — and  begad  a 
young  fellow  may  have  an  attachment,  mayn't  he  ? — Directly  he  gets 
well  he  will  be  at  her  again." 

"He  must  come  home  I  We  must  go  off  directly  to  Fairoaks,"  the 
widow  cried  out. 

"  My  good  creature,  he'll  bore  himself  to  death  at  Fairoaks.  Hell 
have  nothing  to  do  but  to  think  about  his  passion  there.  There's  no 
place  in  the  world  for  making  a  little  passion  into  a  big  one,  and  where 
a  fellow  feeds  on  his  own  thoughts,  like  a  lonely  countn,- -house  where 
there's  nothing  to  do.  We  must  occupy  him :  amuse  him :  we  must 
take  him  abroad  :  he's  never  been  abroad  except  to  Paris  for  a  lark. 
W^e  must  travel  a  little.  He  must  have  a  nurse  with  him,  to  take  great 
care  of  him,  for  Goodenough  says  he  had  a  de\-^lish  narrow  squeak  of 
it  (don't  look  frightened),  and  so  you  must  come  and  watch :  and  I 
suppose  you'll  take  Miss  Bell,  and  I  should  like  to  ask  Warrington  to 
come.  Arthur's  dev'lish  fond  of  Warrington.  He  can't  do  without 
Warrington.  Warrington's  family  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  England, 
and  he  is  one  of  the  best  young  fellows  I  ever  met  in  my  life.  I  like 
him  exceedingly.'' 

"Does  ]Mr.  Warrington  know  anything  about  this — this  affair?" 
asked  Helen.  "  He  had  been  away,  I  know,  for  two  months  before  it 
happened ;  Pen  wrote  me  so." 

"  Not  a  word — I — I've  asked  him  about  it.    I've  pumped  him.    He 


PENDENNIS.  527 

never  heard  of  the  transaction,  never ;  I  pledge  you  my  word,''  cried 
out  the  Major,  in  some  alarm.  "  And,  my  dear,  I  think  you  had  much 
best  not  talk  to  him  about  it — much  best  not  —  of  course  not:  the 
subject  is  most  delicate  and  painful." 

The  simple  widow  took  her  brother's  hand  and  pressed  it.  "  Thank 
you,  brother,"  she  said.  "  You  have  been  very,  very  kind  to  me.  You 
have  given  me  a  great  deal  of  comfort.  I'll  go  to  my  room,  and  think 
of  what  you  have  said.  This  illness,  and  these — these  emotions — 
have  agitated  me  a  great  deal;  and  I'm  not  very  strong,  you  know. 
But  I'll  go  and  thank  God  that  my  boy  is  innocent.  He  is  innocent. 
Isn't  he,  sir  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dearest  creature,  yes,"  said  the  old  fellow,  kissing  her 
affectionately,  and  quite  overcome  by  her  tenderness.  He  looked  after 
her  as  she  retreated,  with  a  fondness  which  was  rendered  more  piquant, 
as  it  were,  by  the  mixture  of  a  certain  scorn  which  accompanied  it. 
"  Innocent! "  he  said;  "  I'd  swear,  till  I  was  black  in  the  face,  he  was 
innocent,  rather  than  give  that  good  soul  pain." 

Having  achieved  this  victory,  the  fatigued  and  happy  warrior  laid 
himself  down  on  the  sofa,  and  put  his  yellow  silk  pocket-handkerchief 
over  his  face,  and  indulged  in  a  snug  little  nap,  of  winch  the  dreams, 
no  doubt,  were  very  pleasant,  as  he  snored  with  refreshing  regularity. 
The  young  men  sate,  meanwhile,  dawdling  away  the  sunshiny  hours 
on  the  terrace,  very  happy,  and  Pen,  at  least,  very  talkative.  He 
was  narrating  to  Warrington  a  plan  for  a  new  novel  and  a  new- 
tragedy.  Warrington  laughed  at  the  idea  of  his  writing  a  tragedy. 
By  Jove,  he  would  show  that  he  could ;  and  he  began  to  spout  some  of 
the  lines  of  his  play. 

The  little  solo  on  the  wind  instrument  which  the  Major  was  per- 
forming was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Miss  Bell.  She  had  been 
on  a  visit  to  her  old  friend,  Lady  Rockminster,  who  had  taken  a  sum- 
mer villa  in  the  neighbourhood ;  and  who,  hearing  of  Arthur's  illness, 
and  his  mother's  arrival  at  Richmond,  had  visited  the  latter ;  and,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  former,  whom  she  didn't  like,  had  been  prodigal  of 
grapes,  partridges,  and  other  attentions.  For  Laura  the  old  lady  had 
a  great  fondness,  and  longed  that  she  should  come  and  stay  with  her ; 
but  Laura  could  not  leave  her  mother  at  this  juncture.  Worn  out  by 
constant  watching  over  Arthur's  health,  Helen's  own  had  suffered  very 
considerably;  and  Doctor  Goodenough  had  had  reason  to  prescribe 
for  her  as  well  as  for  his  younger  patient. 

Old  Pendennis  started  up  on  the  entrance  of  the  young  lady.  His 
slumbers  were  easily  broken.  He  made  her  a  gallant  speech — he 
had  been  full  of  gallantry  towards  her  of  late.  Where  had  she  been 
gathering  those  roses  which  she  wore  on  her  cheeks?  How  happy  he 
vi-as  to  be  disturbed  out  of  his  dreams  by  such  a  charming  reality  ! 


528  PENDEA'NIS. 

Laura  had  plenty  of  humour  and  honesty;  and  these  two  caused  her 
to  have  on  her  side  something  very  Uke  a  contempt  for  the  old  gentle- 
man. It  delighted  her  to  draw  out  his  worldliness,  and  to  make  the 
old  habitu^  of  clubs  and  drawing-rooms  tell  his  twaddling  tales  about 
great  folks,  and  expound  his  views  of  morals. 

Not  in  this  instance,  however,  was  she  disposed  to  be  satirical. 
She  had  been  to  drive  with  Lady  Rockminster  in  the  Park,  she  said ; 
and  she  had  brought  home  game  for  Pen,  and  flowers  for  mamma. 
She  looked  very  grave  about  mamma.  She  had  just  been  with 
Mrs.  Pendennis.  Helen  was  very  much  worn,  and  she  feared  she 
was  very,  very  ill.  Her  large  eyes  filled  with  tender  marks  of  the 
sympathy  which  she  felt  in  her  beloved  friend's  condition.  She  was 
alarmed  about  her.  Could  not  that  good — that  dear  Dr.  Goodenough 
— cure  her .'' 

"  Arthur's  illness,  and  oiJier  mental  anxiety,"  the  Major  slowly 
said,  "  had,  no  doubt,  shaken  Helen."  A  burning  blush  upon  the 
girl's  face  showed  that  she  understood  the  old  man's  allusions.  But 
she  looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  made  no  reply.  "  He  might  have 
spared  me  that,"  she  thought.  "  What  is  he  aiming  at  in  recalling 
that  shame  to  me  ? " 

That  he  had  an  aim  in  view  is  very  possible.  The  old  diplomatist 
seldom  spoke  without  some  such  end.  Doctor  Goodenough  had 
talked  to  him,  he  said,  about  their  dear  friend's  health,  and  she 
wanted  rest  and  change  of  scene — yes,  change  of  scene.  Painful 
circumstances  which  had  occurred  must  be  forgotten  and  never 
alluded  to;  he  begged  pardon  for  even  hinting  at  them  to  Miss  Bell 
— he  never  should  do  so  again — nor,  he  was  sure,  would  she.  Ever)-- 
thing  must  be  done  to  soothe  and  comfort  their  friend,  and  his  pro- 
posal was  that  they  should  go  abroad  for  the  autumn  to  a  watering- 
place  in  the  Rhine  neighbourhood,  where  Helen  might  rally  her 
exhausted  spirits,  and  Arthur  tr)'  and  become  a  new  man.  Of  course, 
Laura  would  not  forsake  her  mother  ? 

Of  course  not.  It  was  about  Helen,  and  Helen  only — that  is, 
about  Arthur  too  for  her  sake,  that  Laura  was  anxious.  She  would  go 
abroad  or  anywhere  with  Helen. 

And  Helen  having  thought  the  matter  over  for  an  hour  in  her  room, 
had  by  that  time  grown  to  be  as  anxious  for  the  tour  as  any  school- 
boy, who  has  been  reading  a  book  of  voyages,  is  eager  to  go  to  sea. 
Whither  should  they  go  ?  the  farther  the  better — to  some  place  so 
remote  that  even  recollection  could  not  follow  them  thither  :  so  de- 
lightful that  Pen  should  never  want  to  leave  it — anywhere  so  that  he 
could  be  happy.  She  opened  her  desk  with  trembling  fingers  and  took 
out  her  banker's  book,  and  counted  up  her  little  savings.  If  more  was 
wanted,  she  had  the  diamond  cross.     She  would  borrow  from  Laura 


PEABEA'A'IS.  529 

again.  "  Let  us  go — let  us  go/'  she  thought ;  "  directly  he  can  bear 
the  journey  let  us  go  away.  Come,  kind  Doctor  Goodenough — come 
quick,  and  give  us  leave  to  ciuit  England." 

The  good  Doctor  drove  over  to  dine  with  them  that  very  day. 
"  If  you  agitate  yourself  so,"  he  said  to  her,  "  and  if  your  heart  beats 
so,  and  if  you  persist  in  being  so  anxious  about  a  young  gentleman 
who  is  getting  well  as  fast  as  he  can,  we  shall  have  you  laid  up,  and 
Miss  Laura  to  watch  you  ;  and  then  it  will  be  her  turn  to  be  ill,  and 
I  should  like  to  know  how  the  deuce  a  doctor  is  to  live  who  is 
obliged  to  come  and  attend  you  all  for  nothing?  Mrs.  Goodenough 
is  already  jealous  of  you,  and  says  with  perfect  justice,  that  I  fall  in 
love  with  my  patients.  And  you  must  please  to  get  out  of  the 
country  as  soon  as  ever  you  can,  that  I  may  have  a  little  peace  in 
my  family." 

When  the  plan  of  going  abroad  was  proposed  to  Arthur,  it  was 
received  by  that  gentleman  with  the  greatest  alacrity  and  enthusiasm. 
He  longed  to  be  off  at  once.  He  let  his  mustachios  grow  from  that 
\-ery  moment,  in  order,  I  suppose,  that  he  might  get  his  mouth  into 
training  for  a  perfect  French  and  German  pronunciation  ;  and  he  was 
seriously  disquieted  in  his  mind  because  the  mustachios,  when  they 
came,  were  of  a  decidedly  red  colour.  He  had  looked  forward  to  an 
iiutumn  at  Fairoaks  ;  and  perhaps  the  idea  of  passing  two  or  three 
months  there  did  not  amuse  the  young  man.  "  There  is  not  a  soul  to 
speak  to  in  the  place,"  he  said  to  Warrington.  "  I  can't  stand  old 
Portman's  sermons,  and  pompous  after-dinner  conversation.  I  know 
all  old  Glanders'  stories  about  the  Peninsular  war.  The  Claverings 
are  the  only  Christian  people  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  they  are  not 
to  be  at  home  before  Christmas,  my  uncle  says  :  besides,  Warrington, 
I  want  to  get  out  of  the  country.  Whilst  you  were  away,  con- 
found it,  I  had  a  temptation,  from  which  I  am  very  thankful  to 
have  escaped,  and  which  I  count  that  even  my  illness  came  very 
luckily  to  put  an  end  to."  And  here  he  narrated  to  his  friend  the 
circumstances  of  the  Vauxhall  affair,  with  which  the  reader  is  already 
acquainted. 

Warrington  looked  very  grave  when  he  heard  this  story.  Putting 
the  moral  delinquency  out  of  the  question,  he  was  extremely  glad  for 
Arthurs  sake  that  the  latter  had  escaped  from  a  danger  which  might 
have  made  his  whole  life  wretched  ;  "  which  certainly,"  said  Warring- 
ton, "  would  have  occasioned  the  wretchedness  and  ruin  of  the  other 
party.  And  your  mother  and — and  your  friends — what  a  pain  it  would 
have  been  to  them  I  "  urged  Pen's  companion,  little  knowing  what 
grief  and  annoyance  these  good  people  had  already  suffered. 

"  Not  a  word  to  my  mother  I "  Pen  cried  out,  in  a  state  of  great 
alarm.      "  She   would  ne-.-er  get   over  it.     An  esclanurc  of  that  sort 

34 


530 


PEXDEXXIS. 


would  kill  her,  I  do  believe.  And,"  he  added,  with  a  knowing  air, 
and  as  if,  like  a  young  rascal  of  a  Lovelace,  he  had  been  engaged  in 
what  are  called  affaires  de  cceur  all  his  life  ;  "  the  best  way,  when  a 
danger  of  that  sort  menaces,  is  not  to  face  it,  but  to  turn  one's  back 
on  it  and  run." 

"  And  were  you  ver>'  much  smitten  ? "  Warrington  asked. 

"  Hm  ! "  said  Lovelace.  "  She  dropped  her  >^'s,  but  she  was  a  dear 
little  girl." 

O  Clarissas  of  this  life,  O  you  poor  little  ignorant  vain  foolish 
maidens  !  if  you  did  but  know  the  way  in  which  the  Lovelaces  speak 
of  you  :  if  you  could  but  hear  Jack  talking  to  Tom  across  the  coffee- 
room  of  a  Club ;  or  see  Ned  taking  your  poor  little  letters  out  of  his 
cigar-case,  and  handing  them  over  to  Charley  and  Billy  and  Harry- 
across  the  mess-room  table,  you  would  not  be  so  eager  to  write,  or  so 
ready  to  listen  !  There's  a  sort  of  crime  which  is  not  complete  unless 
the  lucky  rogue  boasts  of  it  afterwards  ;  and  the  man  who  betrays 
your  honour  in  the  first  place,  is  pretty  sure,  remember  that,  to  betray 
your  secret  too. 

"  It's  hard  to  fight,  and  it's  easy  to  fall,"  Warrington  said  gloomily. 
"  And  as  you  say,  Pendennis,  when  a  danger  like  this  is  imminent,  the 
best  way  is  to  turn  your  back  on  it  and  run." 

After  this  little  discourse  upon  a  subject  about  which  Pen  would 
have  talked  a  great  deal  more  eloquently  a  month  back,  the  conver- 
sation reverted  to  the  plans  for  going  abroad,  and  Arthur  eagerly 
pressed  his  friend  to  be  of  the  party.  Warrington  was  a  part  of  the 
family — a  part  of  the  cure.  Arthur  said  he  should  not  have  half  the 
pleasure  without  Warrington. 

But  George  said  No,  he  couldn't  go.  He  must  stop  at  home  and 
take  Pen's  place.  The  other  remarked  that  that  was  needless,  for 
Shandon  was  now  come  back  to  London,  and  Arthur  was  entitled  to  a 
holiday. 

"  Don't  press  me,"  Warrington  said,  "  I  can't  go.  I've  particular 
engagements.  I'm  best  at  home.  I've  not  got  the  money  to  travel, 
that's  the  long  and  short  of  it — for  travelling  costs  money,  you  know." 

This  little  obstacle  seemed  fatal  to  Pen.  He  mentioned  it  to  his 
mother:  Mrs.  Pendennis  was  ver)-  sorr)-;  Mr.  Warrington  had  been 
exceedingly  kind ;  but  she  supposed  he  knew  best  about  his  affairs. 
And  then,  no  doubt,  she  reproached  herself  for  selfishness  in  wishing 
to  carr}'  the  boy  off  and  have  him  to  herself  altogether. 

"  WTiat  is  this  I  hear  from  Pen,  my  dear  Mr.  Warrington  ?  "  the 
Major  asked  one  day,  when  the  pair  were  alone  and  after  Warrington's 
objection  had  been  stated  to  him.  "  Not  go  with  us  ?  Wc  can't  hear 
of  such  a  thing— Pen  won't  get  well  without  you.     I  promise  you.  I'm 


PENDENNIS.  531 

not  going  to  be  his  nurse.  He  must  have  somebody  with  him  that's 
stronger  and  gayer  and  better  able  to  amuse  him  than  a  rheumatic  old 
fogey  like  me.  I  shall  go  to  Carlsbad  veiy  likely,  when  I've  seen  you 
people  settle  down.  Travelling  costs  nothing  now-a-days — or  so  little ! 
And — and  pray,  Warrington,  I  remember  that  I  was  your  father's  very 
old  friend,  and  if  you  and  your  brother  are  not  on  such  terms  as  to 
enable  you  to — to  anticipate  your  younger  brother's  allowance,  I  beg 
you  to  make  me  your  banker,  for  hasn't  Pen  been  getting  into  your 
debt  these  three  weeks  past,  during  which  you  have  been  doing  what 
he  informs  me  is  his  work,  with  such  exemplary  talent  and  genius, 
begad.?" 

Still,  in  spite  of  this  kind  offer  and  unheard-of  generosity  on  the 
part  of  the  Major,  George  Warrington  refused,  and  said  he  would  stay 
at  home.  But  it  was  with  a  faltering  voice  and  an  irresolute  accent 
which  showed  how  much  he  would  like  to  go,  though  his  tongue 
persisted  in  saying  nay. 

But  the  Major's  persevering  benevolence  was  not  to  be  baulked  in 
this  way.  At  the  tea-table  that  evening,  Helen  happening  to  be  absent 
from  the  room  for  the  moment,  looking  for  Pen  who  had  gone  to  roost, 
old  Pendennis  returned  to  the  charge,  and  rated  Warrington  for 
refusing  to  join  in  their  excursion.  "Isn't  it  ungallant.  Miss  Bell?" 
he  said,  turning  to  that  young  lady.  "  Isn't  it  unfriendly  .?  Here 
we  have  been  the  happiest  party  in  the  world,  and  this  odious  selfish 
creature  breaks  it  up  ! " 

Miss  Bell's  long  eyelashes  looked  down  towards  her  tea-cup :  and 
Warrington  blushed  hugely  but  did  not  speak.  Neither  did  Miss  Bell 
speak  :  but  when  he  blushed  she  blushed  too. 

"  You  ask  him  to  come,  my  dear,"  said  the  benevolent  old  gentle- 
man, "  and  then  perhaps  he  will  listen  to  you — " 

"  Why  should  Mr.  Warrington  listen  to  me  ? "  asked  the  young 
lady,  putting  the  query  to  her  tea-spoon  seemingly,  and  not  to  the 
Major. 

"  Ask  him ;  you  have  not  asked  him,"  said  Pen's  artless  uncle. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad,  indeed,  if  Mr.  Warrington  would  come," 
remarked  Laura  to  the  tea-spoon. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  said  George. 

She  looked  up  and  said,  "  Yes."  Their  eyes  met.  "  I  will  go  any- 
where you  ask  me,  or  do  anything,"  said  George,  lowly,  and  forcing 
out  the  words  as  if  they  gave  him  pain. 

Old  Pendennis  was  delighted ;  the  affectionate  old  creature  clapped 
his  hands  and  cried,  "Bravo!  bravo!  It's  a  bargain — a  bargain, 
begad !  Shake  hands  on  it,  young  people ! "  And  Laura,  with  a 
look  full  of  tender  brightness,  put  out  her  hand  to  Warrington.  He 
took  hers ;  his  face  indicated  a  strange  agitation.     He  seemed  to  be 


533  PENDEi\NIS. 

about  to  speak,  when,  from  Pen's  neighbouring  room  Helen  entered 
looking  at  them  as  the  candle  which  she  held  lighted  her  pale 
frightened  face. 

Laura  blushed  more  red  than  ever  and  withdrew  her  band. 

''What  is  it.?"  Helen  asked. 

"  Ifs  a  bargain  we  have  been  making,  my  dear  creature,"  said  the 
Major  in  his  most  caressing  voice.  "  We  have  just  bound  over 
Mr.  Warrington  in  a  promise  to  come  abroad  with  us." 

"  Indeed  ! "  Helen  said 


PENDENNIS.  533 


CHAPTER   LV. 

IN    WHICH    FANNY   ENGAGES   A   NEW   MEDICAL   MAN. 

COULD  Helen  have  suspected  that,  with  Pen's  returning  strength, 
his  unhappy  partiahty  for  little  Fanny  would  also  reawaken  ? 
Though  she  never  spoke  a  word  regarding  that  young  person,  after 
her  conversation  with  the  Major,  and  though,  to  all  appearance,  she 
utterly  ignored  Fanny's  existence,  yet  Mrs.  Pendennis  kept  a  par- 
ticularly close  watch  upon  all  Master  Arthur's  actions ;  on  the  plea  of 
ill-health,  would  scarcely  let  him  out  of  her  sight ;  and  was  especially 
anxious  that  he  should  be  spared  the  trouble  of  all  correspondence  for 
the  present  at  least.  Very  likely  Arthur  looked  at  his  own  letters  with 
some  tremor;  very  likely,  as  he  received  them  at  the  family  table, 
feeling  his  mother's  watch  upon  him  (though  the  good  soul's  eye 
seemed  fixed  upon  her  tea-cup  or  her  book),  he  expected  daily  to  see 
a  little  handwriting,  which  he  would  have  known,  though  he  had  never 
seen  it  yet,  and  his  heart  beat  as  he  received  the  letters  to  his  address. 
Was  he  more  pleased  or  annoyed,  that,  day  after  day,  his  expectations 
were  not  realised;  and  was  his  mind  relieved,  that  there  came  no 
letter  from  Fanny  ?  Though,  no  doubt,  in  these  matters,  v.-hen  Love- 
lace is  tired  of  Clarissa  (or  the  contrary),  it  is  best  for  both  parties  to 
break  at  once,  and  each,  after  the  failure  of  the  attempt  at  union,  to 
go  his  own  way,  and  pursue  his  course  through  life  solitary;  yet  our 
self-love,  or  our  pity,  or  our  sense  of  decency,  does  not  like  that  sudden 
bankruptcy.  Before  we  announce  to  the  world  that  our  firm  of  Love- 
lace and  Co.  can't  meet  its  engagements,  we  try  to  make  compromises ; 
v/c  have  mournful  meetings  of  partners :  we  delay  the  putting  up  of  the 
shutters,  and  the  dreary  announcement  of  the  failure.  It  must  come: 
but  we  pawn  our  jewels  to  keep  things  going  a  little  longer.  On  the 
whole,  I  dare  say,  Pen  was  rather  annoyed  that  he  had  no  remon- 
strances from  Fanny.  What !  could  she  part  from  him,  and  never  so 
much  as  once  look  round?  could  she  sink,  and  never  once  hold  a  little 
hand  out,  or  cr>',  "Help,  Arthur!"  Well,  well:  they  don't  all  go 
down  vvho  venture  on  that  voyage.  Some  few  drown  when  the  vessel 
founders ;  but  most  are  only  ducked,  and  scramble  to  shore.  And  the 
reader's  experience  of  A.  Pendennis,  Esquire,  of  the  Upper  Temple, 
will  enable  him  to  state  whether  that  gentleman  belonged  to  the  class 
of  persons  who  were  likely  to  sink  or  to  swim. 


534 


PEyDEXNIS. 


Though  Pen  was  as  yet  too  weak  to  walk  half  a  mile ;  and  might 
not,  on  account  of  his  precious  health,  be  trusted  to  take  a  drive  in 
a  carriage  by  himself,  and  without  a  nurse  in  attendance ;  yet  Helen 
could  not  keep  watch  over  Mr.  Warrington  too,  and  had  no  authority 
to  prevent  that  gentleman  from  going  to  London  if  business  called 
him  thither".  Indeed,  if  he  had  gone  and  stayed,  perhaps  the  widow, 
from  reasons  of  her  own,  would  have  been  glad;  but  she  checked 
these  selfish  wishes  as  soon  as  she  ascertained  or  owned  them ;  and, 
remembering  Warrington's  great  regard  and  services,  and  constant 
friendship  for  her  boy,  received  him  as  a  member  of  her  family  almost, 
with  her  usual  melancholy  kindness  and  submissive  acquiescence. 
Yet  somehow,  one  morning  when  his  affairs  called  him  to  town,  she 
divined  what  Warrington's  errand  was,  and  that  he  was  gone  to 
London  to  get  news  about  Fanny  for  Pen. 

Indeed,  Arthur  had  had  some  talk  with  his  friend,  and  told  him 
more  at  large  what  his  adventures  had  been  with  Fanny  (adventures 
which  the  reader  knows  already),  and  what  were  his  feelings  respecting 
her.  He  was  very  thankful  that  he  had  escaped  the  great  danger,  to 
which  Warrington  said  .rVmen  heartily;  that  he  had  no  great  fault 
wherewith  to  reproach  himself  in  regard  of  his  behaviour  to  her,  but 
that  if  they  parted,  as  they  must,  he  would  be  glad  to  say  a  God  bless 
her,  and  to  hope  that  she  would  remember  him  kindly.  In  his  dis- 
course with  Warrington  he  spoke  upon  these  matters  with  so  much 
gravity,  and  so  much  emotion,  that  George,  who  had  pronounced  him- 
self most  strongly  for  the  separation  too,  began  to  fear  that  his  friend 
was  not  so  well  cured  as  he  boasted  of  being ;  and  that,  if  the  two 
were  to  come  together  again,  all  the  danger  and  the  temptation  might 
have  to  be  fought  once  more.  And  with  what  result?  "  It  is  hard  to 
struggle,  Arthur,  and  it  is  easy  to  fall,"  Warrington  said :  "  and  the 
best  courage  for  us  poor  wretches  is  to  fly  from  danger.  I  would  not 
have  been  what  I  am  now,  had  I  practised  what  I  preach." 

"  And  what  did  you  practise,  George  ? "  Pen  asked,  eagerly.  "  I 
knew  there  was  something.     Tell  us  about  it,  Warrington." 

"  There  was  something  that  can't  be  mended,  and  that  shattered 
my  whole  fortunes  early,"  Warrington  answered.  ''  I  said  I  would' 
tell  you  about  it  some  day,  Pen ;  and  will,  but  not  now.  Take  the 
moral  without  the  fable  now,  Pen,  my  boy ;  and  if  you  want  to  see  a 
man  whose  whole  life  has  been  wrecked,  by  an  unlucky  rock  against 
which  he  struck  as  a  boy — here  he  is,  Arthur,  and  so  I  warn  you." 

We  have  shown  how  Mr.  Huxter,  in  writing  home  to  his  Clavering 
friends,  mentioned  that  there  was  a  fashionable  club  in  London  of 
which  he  was  an  attendant,  and  that  he  was  there  in  the  habit  of 
meeting  an  Irish  officer  of  distinction,  who,  amongst  other  news,  had 


PENDENNIS.  535. 

given  that  intelligence  regarding  Pendennis  which  the  young  surgeon 
had  transmitted  to  Clavering.  This  club  was  no  other  than  the  Back- 
Kitchen,  where  the  disciple  of  Saint  Bartholomew  was  accustomed  to 
meet  the  General,  the  peculiarities  of  whose  brogue,  appearance,  dis- 
position, and  general  conversation,  greatly  diverted  many  young  gentle- 
men who  used  the  Back-Kitchen  as  a  place  of  nightly  entertainment 
and  refreshment.  Huxter,  who  had  a  fine  natural  genius  for  mimicking 
everything,  whether  it  was  a  favourite  tragic  or  comic  actor,  a  cock  on 
a  dunghill,  a  corkscrew  going  into  a  bottle  and  a  cork  issuing  thence, 
or  an  Irish  officer  of  genteel  connections  who  offered  himself  as  an 
object  of  imitation  with  only  too  much  readiness,  talked  his  talk,  and 
twanged  his  poor  old  long-bow  whenever  drink,  a  hearer,  and  an 
opportunity  occurred,  studied  our  friend  the  General  with  peculiar 
gusto,  and  drew  the  honest  fellow  out  many  a  night.  A  bait,  consist- 
ing of  sixpennyworth  of  brandy  and  water,  the  worthy  old  man  was 
sure  to  swallow :  and  under  the  influence  of  this  liquor,  who  was  more 
happy  than  he  to  tell  his  stories  of  his  daughter's  triumphs  and  his 
own,  in  love,  war,  drink,  and  polite  society  .'  Thus  Huxter  was  enabled 
to  present  to  his  friends  many  pictures  of  Costigan  :  of  Costigan  fight- 
ing a  jewel  in  the  Phaynix — of  Costigan  and  his  interview  with  the 
Juke  of  York — of  Costigan  at  his  sonunlaw's  teeble,  surrounded  by  the 
nobilifee  of  his  countree — of  Costigan,  when  crying  drunk,  at  which 
time  he  was  in  the  habit  of  confidentially  lamenting  his  daughter's 
ingratichevvd,  and  stating  that  his  grey  hairs  were  hastening  to  a  pray- 
machure  greeve.  And  thus  our  friend  was  the  means  of  bringing  a 
number  of  young  fellows  to  the  Back-Kitchen,  who  consumed  the 
landlord's  liquors  whilst  they  relished  the  General's  peculiarities,  so 
that  mine  host  pardoned  many  of  the  latter 's  foibles,  in  consideration 
of  the  good  Vv'hich  they  brought  to  his  house.  Not  the  highest  position 
in  life  was  this  certainly,  or  one  which,  if  we  had  a  reverence  for  an 
old  man,  we  would  be  anxious  that  he  should  occupy :  but  of  this  aged 
buffoon  it  may  be  mentioned  that  he  had  no  particular  idea  that  his 
condition  of  life  was  not  a  high  one,  and  that  in  his  whiskyed  blood 
there  was  not  a  black  drop,  nor  in  his  muddled  brains  a  bitter  feeling, 
against  any  mortal  being.  Even  his  child,  his  cruel  Emily,  he  would 
have  taken  to  his  heart  and  forgiven  with  tears ;  and  what  more  can 
one  say  of  the  Christian  charity  of  a  man  than  that  he  is  actually 
ready  to  forgive  those  who  have  done  him  every  kindness,  and  with 
whom  he  is  wrong  in  a  dispute .'' 

There  was  some  idea  amongst  the  young  men  who  frequented  the 
Back-Kitchen,  and  made  themselves  merrj^with  the  society  of  Captain 
Costigan,  that  the  Captain  made  a  mystery  regarding  his  lodgings  for 
fear  of  duns,  or  from  a  desire  of  privacy,  and  lived  in  some  wonderful 
place.    Nor  would  the  landlord  of  the  premises,  when  questioned  upon 


536  PEXDENXIS. 

this  subject,  answer  any  inquiiies;  his  maxim  being  that  he  only  knew 
•:^entlemen  who  frequented  that  room,  vi  that  room;  that  when  they 
quitted  that  room,  having  paid  their  scores  as  gentlemen,  and  behaved 
as  gentlemen,  his  communication  with  them  ceased ;  and  that,  as  a 
gentleman  himself,  he  thought  it  was  only  impertinent  curiosity  to  ask 
where  any  other  gentleman  lived.  Costigan,  in  his  most  intoxicated 
and  confidential  moments,  also  evaded  any  replies  to  questions  or  hints 
addressed  to  him  on  this  subject :  there  was  no  particular  secret  about 
it,  as  we  have  seen,  who  have  had  more  than  once  the  honour  of 
entering  his  apartments,  but  in  the  vicissitudes  of  a  long  life  he  had 
been  pretty  often  in  the  habit  of  residing  in  houses  where  privacy  was 
necessary  to  his  comfort,  and  where  the  appearance  of  some  visitors 
would  have  brought  him  anything  but  pleasure.  Hence  all  sorts  of 
legends  were  formed  by  wags  or  credulous  persons  respecting  his  place 
of  abode.  It  was  stated  that  he  slept  habitually  in  a  watch-box  in  the 
City;  in  a  cab  at  a  mews,  where  a  cab  proprietor  gave  him  a  shelter: 
in  the  Duke  of  York's  Column,  Sec.  the  wildest  of  these  theories  being 
put  abroad  by  the  facetious  and  imaginative  Huxter.  For  Huxey, 
when  not  silenced  by  the  company  of  "  swells,"  and  when  in  the  society 
of  his  own  friends,  was  a  ver)-  different  fellow  to  the  youth  whom  we 
have  seen  cowed  by  Pen's  impertinent  airs,  and,  adored  by  his  family 
at  home,  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  circle  whom  he  met,  either  round 
the  festive  board  or  the  dissecting-table. 

On  one  brilliant  September  morning,  as  Huxter  was  regaling  him- 
self with  a  cup  of  coffee  at  a  stall  in  Covent  Garden,  having  spent  a 
delicious  night  dancing  at  Vauxhall,  he  spied  the  General  reehng  down 
Henrietta  Street,  with  a  crowd  of  hooting  blackguard  boys  at  his  heels, 
who  had  left  their  beds  under  the  arches  of  the  river  betimes,  and  were 
prowling  about  already  for  breakfast,  and  the  strange  livelihood  of  the 
day.  The  poor  old  General  was  not  in  that  condition  when  the  sneers 
and  jokes  of  these  young  beggars  had  much  effect  upon  him;  the 
cabmen  and  watermen  at  the  cab-stand  knew  him,  and  passed  their 
comments  upon  him :  the  policemen  gazed  after  him,  and  warned  the 
boys  off  "him,  with  looks  of  scorn  and  pity :  what  did  the  scorn  and 
pity  of  men,  the  jokes  of  ribald  children,  matter  to  the  General?  He 
reeled  along  the  street  with  glazed  eyes,  having  just  sense  enough  to 
know  whither  he  was  bound,  and  to  pursue  his  accustomed  beat 
homewards.  He  went  to  bed  not  knowing  how  he  had  reached  it,  as 
often  as  any  man  in  London.  He  woke  and  found  himself  there,  and 
asked  no  questions ;  and  he  was  tacking  about  on  this  daily  though 
perilous  voyage,  when,  from  his  station  at  the  coffee-stall,  Huxter 
spied  him.  To  note  his  friend,  to  pay  his  twopence  (indeed,  he  had 
but  eightpence  left,  or  he  would  have  had  a  cab  from  Vauxliall  to 
take  him  home),  was  with  the  eager  Huxter  the  work  of  an  instant— 


PENDENNIS.  537 

Costigan  dived  down  the  alleys  by  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  where  gin- 
shops,  oyster-shops,  and  theatrical  wardrobes  abound,  the  proprietors 
of  which  were  now  asleep  behind  their  shutters,  as  the  pink  morning 
lighted  up  their  chimneys;  and  through  these  courts  Huxter  followed 
the  General,  until  he  reached  Oldcastle  Street,  in  which  is  the  gate  of 
Shepherd's  Inn. 

Here,  just  as  he  was  within  sight  of  home,  a  luckless  slice  of 
orange-peel  came  between  the  General's  heel  and  the  pavement,  and 
caused  the  poor  old  fellow  to  fall  backwards. 

Huxter  ran  up  to  him  instantly,  and  after  a  pause,  during  which 
the  veteran,  giddy  with  his  fall  and  his  previous  whisky,  gathered,  as 
he  best  might,  his  dizzy  brains  together,  the  young  surgeon  lifted  up 
the  limping  General,  and  very  kindly  and  good-naturedly  offered  to 
conduct  him  to  his  home.  For  some  time,  and  in  reply  to  the  queries 
which  the  student  of  medicine  put  to  him,  the  muzzy  General  refused 
to  say  where  his  lodgings  were,  and  declared  that  they  were  hard  by, 
and  that  he  could  reach  them  without  difficulty ;  and  he  disengaged 
himself  from  Huxter's  arm,  and  made  a  rush,  as  if  to  get  to  his  own 
home  unattended:  but  he  reeled  and  lurched  so,  that  the  young 
surgeon  insisted  upon  accompanying  him,  and,  with  many  soothing 
expressions  and  cheering  and  consolatory  phrases,  succeeded  in 
getting  the  General's  dirty  old  hand  under  what  he  called  his  own 
fin,  and  led  the  old  fellow,  moaning  piteously,  across  the  street.  He 
stopped  when  he  came  to  the  ancient  gate,  ornamented  with  the 
armorial  bearings  of  the  venerable  Shepherd.  "  Here  'tis,"  said  he, 
drawing  up  at  the  portal,  and  he  made  a  successful  pull  at  the  gate- 
beil,  which  presently  brought  out  old  Mr.  Bolton,  the  porter,  scowling 
fiercely,  and  grumbling  as  he  was  used  to  do  every  morning  when  it 
became  his  turn  to  let  in  that  early  bird. 

Costigan  tried  to  hold  Bolton  for  a  moment  in  genteel  conversation, 
but  the  other  surlily  would  not.  "  Don't  bother  me,"  he  said ;  "  go  to 
your  hown  bed,  Capting,  and  don't  keep  honest  men  out  of  theirs."  So 
the  Captain  tacked  across  the  square  and  reached  his  own  staircase, 
up  which  he  stumbled  with  the  worthy  Huxter  at  his  heels.  Costigan 
had  a  key  of  his  own,  which  Huxter  inserted  into  the  keyhole  for  him, 
so  that  there  was  no  need  to  call  up  little  Mr.  Bows  from  the  sleep 
into  which  the  old  musician  had  not  long  since  fallen,  and  Huxter 
having  aided  to  disrobe  his  tipsy  patient,  and  ascertained  that  no  bones 
were  broken,  helped  him  to  bed,  and  applied  compresses  and  water 
to  one  of  his  knees  and  shins,  which,  with  the  pair  of  trowsers  which 
encased  them,  Costigan  had  severely  torn  in  his  fall.  At  the  General's 
age,  and  with  his  habit  of  body,  such  wounds  as  he  had  inflicted  on 
himself  are  slow  to  heal:  a  good  deal  of  inflammation  ensued,  and 
the  old  fellow  lay  ill  for  some  days  suffering  both  pain  and  fever. 


538  PENDENNIS. 

Mr.  Huxter  undertook  the  case  of  his  interestmg  patient  with  great 
confidence  and  alacrity,  and  conducted  it  with  becoming  skill.  He 
visited  his  friend  day  after  day,  and  consoled  him  with  lively  rattle  and 
conversation,  for  the  absence  of  the  society  which  Costigan  needed, 
and  of  which  he  was  an  ornament ;  and  he  gave  special  instructions 
to  the  invalid's  nurse  about  the  quantity  of  whisky  which  the  patient 
was  to  take — instructions  which,  as  the  poor  old  fellow  coidd  not  for 
many  days  get  out  of  his  bed  or  sofa  himself,  he  could  not  by  any 
means  infringe.  Bows,  Mrs.  Bolton,  and  our  little  friend  Fanny,  when 
able  to  do  so,  officiated  at  the  General's  bedside,  and  the  old  warrior 
was  made  as  comfortable  as  possible  under  his  calamity. 

Thus  Huxter,  whose  affable  manners  and  social  turn  made  him 
quickly  intimate  with  persons  in  whose  society  he  fell,  became  pretty 
soon  intimate  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  both  with  our  acquaintances  in  the 
garrets  and  those  in  the  Porter's  Lodge.  He  thought  he  had  seen 
Fanny  somewhere :  he  felt  certain  that  he  had ;  but  it  is  no  wonder 
that  he  should  not  accurately  remember  her,  for  the  poor  little  thing 
never  chose  to  tell  him  where  she  had  met  him :  he  himself  had  seen 
her  at  a  period,  when  his  own  views  both  of  persons  and  of  right  and 
wrong  were  clouded  by  the  excitement  of  drinking  and  dancing,  and 
also  little  Fanny  was  very  much  changed  and  worn  by  the  fever 
and  agitation,  and  passion  and  despair,  which  the  past  three  weeks 
had  poured  upon  the  head  of  that  little  victim.  Borne  down  was  the 
head  now,  and  very  pale  and  wan  the  face ;  and  many  and  many  a 
time  the  sad  eyes  had  looked  into  the  postman's,  as  he  came  to  the 
Inn,  and  the  sickened  heart  had  sunk  as  he  passed  away.  When 
Mr.  Costigan's  accident  occurred,  Fanny  was  rather  glad  to  have  an 
opportunity  of  being  useful  and  doing  something  kind — something 
that  would  make  her  forget  her  own  little  sorrows  perhaps :  she  felt 
she  bore  them  better  whilst  she  did  her  duty,  though  I  dare  say  many 
a  tear  dropped  into  the  old  Irishman's  gruel.  Ah,  me !  stir  the  gruel 
well,  and  have  courage,  little  Fanny  !  If  everybody  who  has  suffered 
from  your  complaint  were  to  die  of  it  straightway,  what  a  fine  year  the 
undertakers  would  have ! 

Whether  from  compassion  for  his  only  patient,  or  delight  in  his 
society,  Mr.  Huxter  found  now  occasion  to  visit  Costigan  two  or  three 
times  in  the  day  at  least,  and  if  any  of  the  members  of  the  Porters 
Lodge  family  were  not  in  attendance  on  the  General,  the  young  doctor 
was  sure  to  have  some  particular  directions  to  address  to  them  at  their 
own  place  of  habitation.  He  was  a  kind  fellow;  he  made  or  purchased 
toys  for  the  children;  he  brought  them  apples  and  brandy-balls;  he 
brought  a  mask  and  frightened  them  with  it,  and  caused  a  smile  upon 
the  face  of  pale  Fanny.  He  called  Mrs.  Bolton  Mrs.  B.,  and  was  very 
intimate,  familiar,  and  facetious  with  that  lady,  quite  different  from 


PENDENNIS.  539 

that  "  'aughty  'artless  beast,"  as  Mrs.  Bolton  now  denominated  a 
certain  young  gentleman  of  our  acquaintance,  and  whom  she  now 
vowed  she  never  could  abear. 

It  was  from  this  lady,  who  was  very  free  in  her  conversation,  that 
Huxter  presently  learnt  what  was  the  illness  which  was  evidently 
preying  upon  little  Fan,  and  what  had  been  Pen's  behaviour  regarding 
her.  Mrs.  Bolton's  account  of  the  transaction  was  not,  it  may  be 
imagined,  entirely  an  impartial  narrative.  One  would  have  thought 
from  her  story  that  the  young  gentleman  had  employed  a  course  oi 
the  most  persevering  and  flagitious  artifices  to  win  the  girl's  heart,  had 
broken  the  most  solemn  promises  made  to  her,  and  was  a  wretch  to 
be  hated  and  chastised  by  every  champion  of  woman.  Huxter,  in 
his  present  frame  of  mind  respecting  Arthur,  and  suffering  under  the 
latter's  contumely,  was  ready,  of  course,  to  take  all  for  granted  that 
was  said  in  the  disfavour  of  this  unfortunate  convalescent.  But  why 
did  he  not  write  home  to  Clavering,  as  he  had  done  previously,  giving 
an  account  of  Pen's  misconduct,  and  of  the  particulars  regarding  it, 
which  had  now  come  to  his  knowledge?  He  once,  in  a  letter  to  his 
brother-in-law,  announced  that  that  nice  young  man,  Mr.  Pendennis, 
had  escaped  narrowly  from  a  fever,  and  that  no  doubt  all  Clavering, 
where  he  was  so  popidar,  would  be  pleased  at  his  recovel^ ;  and  he 
mentioned  that  he  had  an  interesting  case  of  compound  fracture,  an 
officer  of  distinction,  which  kept  him  in  town;  but  as  for  Fanny 
Bolton,  he  made  no  more  mention  of  her  in  his  letters — no  more  than 
Pen  himself  had  made  mention  of  her.  O  you  mothers  at  home,  how 
much  do  you  think  you  know  about  your  lads  ?  How  much  do  you 
think  you  know  ? 

But  with  Bows,  there  was  no  reason  why  Huxter  should  not  speak 
his  mind,  and  so,  a  very  short  time  after  his  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Bolton,  Mr.  Sam  talked  to  the  musician  about  his  early  acquaintance 
with  Pendennis ;  described  him  as  a  confounded  conceited  blackguard, 
and  expressed  a  determination  to  punch  his  impudent  head  as  soon  as 
ever  he  should  be  well  enough  to  stand  up  like  a  man. 

Then  it  was  that  Bows  on  his  part  spoke,  and  told  his  version  of 
the  story,  whereof  Arthur  and  little  Fan  were  the  hero  and  heroine ; 
how  they  had  met  by  no  contrivance  of  the  former,  but  by  a  blunder 
of  the  old  Irishman,  now  in  bed  with  a  broken  shin — how  Pen  had 
acted  with  manliness  and  self-control  in  the  business — how  Mrs.  Bolton 
was  an  idiot ;  and  he  related  the  conversation  which  he,  Bows,  had 
had  with  Pen,  and  the  sentiments  uttered  by  the  young  man.  Perhaps 
Bows's  story  caused  some  twinges  of  conscience  in  the  breast  of 
Pen's  accuser,  and  that  gentleman  frankly  owned  that  he  had  been 
wrong  with  regard  to  Arthur,  and  withdrew  his  project  for  punching 
Mr.  Pendennis's  head. 


540  PENDE.Yi\7S. 

But  the  cessation  of  his  hostihty  for  Pen  did  not  diminish  Huxter's 
attentions  to  Fanny,  which  unlucky  Mr.  Bows  marked  with  his  usual 
jealousy  and  bitterness  of  spirit.  "  I  have  but  to  like  anybody,"  the 
old  fellow  thought,  "  and  somebody  is  sure  to  be  preferred  to  me.  It 
has  been  the  same  ill  luck  with  me  since  I  was  a  lad,  until  now  that  I 
am  sixty  years  old.  What  can  I  expect  better  than  to  be  laughed  at .' 
It  is  for  the  young  to  succeed,  and  to  be  happy,  and  not  for  old  fools 
like  me.  I've  played  a  second  fiddle  all  through  life,"  he  said,  with  a 
bitter  laugh;  "how  can  I  suppose  the  luck  is  to  change  after  it  has 
gone  against  me  so  long.'"'  This  was  the  selfish  way  in  which  Bows 
looked  at  the  state  of  affairs  :  though  few  persons  would  have  thought 
there  was  any  cause  for  his  jealousy,  who  looked  at  the  pale  and 
grief-stricken  countenance  of  the  hapless  little  girl,  its  object.  Fanny 
received  Huxters  good-natured  ettorts  at  consolation  and  kind  atten- 
tions kindly.  She  laughed  now  and  again  at  his  jokes  and  games 
with  her  little  sisters,  but  relapsed  quickly  into  a  dejection  which  ought 
to  have  satisfied  Mr.  Bows  that  the  new-comer  had  no  place  in  her 
heart  as  yet,  had  jealous  Mr.  Bows  been  enabled  to  see  with  clear  eyes. 

But  Bows  did  not.  Fanny  attributed  Pen's  silence  somehow  to 
Bows's  interference.  Fanny  hated  him.  Fanny  treated  Bows  with 
constant  cruelty  and  injustice.  She  turned  from  him  when  he  spoke 
— she  loathed  his  attempts  at  consolation.  A  hard  life  had  Mr.  Bows, 
and  a  cruel  return  for  his  regard. 

When  Warrington  came  to  Shepherd's  Inn  as  Pen's  ambassador,  it 
was  for  Mr.  Bows's  apartments  he  inquired  (no  doubt  upon  a  previous 
agreement  with  the  principal  for  whom  he  acted  in  this  delicate  nego- 
tiation), and  he  did  not  so  much  as  catch  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Fanny 
when  he  stopped  at  the  inn-gate  and  made  his  inquir}-.  Warrington 
was,  of  course,  directed  to  the  musician's  chambers,  and  found  him 
tending  the  patient  there,  from  whose  chamber  he  came  out  to  wait 
upon  his  guest.  We  have  said  that  they  had  been  previously  known 
to  one  another,  and  the  pair  shook  hands  with  sufficient  cordiality. 
After  a  little  preliminary'  talk,  Warrington  said  that  he  had  come  from 
his  friend  Arthur  Pendennis,  and  from  his  family,  to  thank  Bows  for  his 
attention  at  the  commencement  of  Pen's  illness,  and  for  his  kindness  in 
hastening  into  the  country  to  fetch  the  Major. 

Bows  replied  that  it  was  but  his  duty :  he  had  never  thought  to 
have  seen  the  young  gentleman  alive  again  when  he  went  in  search 
of  Pen's  relatives,  and  he  was  very  glad  of  Mr.  Pendennis's  recovery, 
and  that  he  had  his  friends  with  him.  "  Lucky  are  they  who  have 
friends,  Mr.  Warrington,"  said  the  musician.  "  I  might  be  up  in  this 
garret  and  nobody  would  care  for  me,  or  mind  whether  I  was  alive 
or  dead." 


PENDENNIS.  541 

"  What !  not  the  General,  Mr.  Bows  ? "  Warrington  asked. 

"  The  General  likes  his  whisky-bottle  more  than  anything  in  life," 
the  other  answered ;  "  we  live  together  from  habit  and  convenience ; 
and  he  cares  for  me  no  more  than  you  do.  What  is  it  you  want  to 
ask  me,  Mr.  Warrington  ?  You  ain't  come  to  visit  me,  I  know  very 
well.  Nobody  comes  to  visit  me.  It  is  about  Fanny,  the  porter's 
daughter,  you  are  come — I  see  that  very  well.  Is  Mr.  Pendennis, 
now  he  has  got  well,  anxious  to  see  her  again  ?  Does  his  lordship  the 
Sultan  propose  to  throw  his  'ankerchief  to  her  t  She  has  been  very 
ill,  sir,  ever  since  the  day  when  Mrs.  Pendennis  turned  her  out  of 
doors — kind  of  a  lady,  wasn't  it  ?  The  poor  girl  and  myself  found 
the  young  gentleman  raving  in  a  fever,  knowing  nobody,  with  nobody 
to  tend  him  but  his  drunken  laundress — she  watched  day  and  night 
oy  him.  I  set  off  to  fetch  his  uncle.  Mamma  comes  and  turns 
Fanny  to  the  right  about.  Uncle  comes  and  leaves  me  to  pay  the 
cab.  Carry  my  compliments  to  the  ladies  and  gentleman,  and  say  we 
are  both  very  thankful,  very.  Why,  a  countess  couldn't  have  behaved 
better  ;  and  for  an  apothecary's  lady,  as  I'm  given  to  understand 
Mrs.  Pendennis  was — I'm  sure  her  behaviour  is  most  uncommon 
aristocratic  and  genteel.  She  ought  to  have  a  double  gilt  pestle  and 
mortar  to  her  coach." 

It  was  from  Mr.  Huxter  that  Bows  had  learned  Pen's  parentage, 
no  doubt,  and  if  he  took  Pen's  part  against  the  young  surgeon,  and 
Fann>''s  against  Mr.  Pendennis,  it  was  because  the  old  gentleman  was 
in  so  savage  a  mood,  that  his  humour  was  to  contradict  everybody. 

Warrington  was  curious,  and  not  ill-pleased  at  the  musician's 
taunts  and  irascibility.  "  I  never  heard  of  these  transactions,"  he 
said,  "  or  got  but  a  very  imperfect  account  of  them  from  Major  Pen- 
dennis. What  was  a  lady  to  do  ?  I  think  (I  have  never  spoken  with 
her  on  the  subject)  she  had  some  notion  that  the  young  woman  and 
my  friend  Pen  were  on — on  terms  of — of  an  intimacy  which  Mrs. 
Pendennis  could  not,  of  course,  recognise — " 

"  Oh,  of  course  not,  sir.  Speak  out,  sir  ;  say  what  you  mean  at 
once,  that  the  young  gentleman  of  the  Temple  had  made  a  victim  of 
the  girl  of  Shepherd's  Inn,  eh  ?  And  so  she  was  to  be  turned  out  of 
doors — or  brayed  alive  in  the  double  gilt  pestle  and  mortar,  by  Jove  ! 
No,  Mr.  Warrington,  there  was  no  such  thing  ;  there  was  no  victim- 
ising, or  if  there  was,  Mr.  Arthur  was  the  victim,  not  the  girl.  He  is 
an  honest  fellow,  he  is,  though  he  is  conceited,  and  a  puppy  some- 
times. He  can  feel  like  a  man  and  run  away  from  temptation  like 
a  man.  I  ov,-n  it,  though  I  suffer  by  it,  I  own  it.  He  has  a  heart,  he 
has  :  but  the  girl  hasn't,  sir.  That  girl  will  do  anything  to  win  a 
man,  and  fling  him  away  without  a  pang,  sir.  If  she's  flung  away 
herself,  sir,  she'll  feel  it  and  cry.     She  had  a  fever  when  Mrs.  Pen- 


542  PE\DENX/S. 

dennis  turned  her  out  of  doors  ;  and  she  made  love  to  the  Doctor. 
Doctor  Goodenough,  who  came  to  cure  her.  Now  she  has  taken  on 
with  another  chap — another  sawbones,  ha  !  ha  !  d —  it,  sir,  she  likes 
the  pestle  and  mortar,  and  hangs  round  the  pill-boxes,  she's  so  fond 
of  'em,  and  she  has  got  a  fellow  from  Saint  Bartholomew's,  who  grins 
through  a  horse-collar  for  her  sisters  and  charms  away  her  melancholy. 
Go  and  see,  sir  :  very  likely  he's  in  the  lodge  now.  If  you  want  news 
about  Miss  Fanny,  you  must  ask  at  the  Doctor's  shop,  sir,  not  of  an 
old  fiddler  like  me — Good-by,  sir.     There's  my  patient  calling." 

And  a  voice  was  heard  from  the  Captain's  bed-room,  a  well-known 
voice,  which  said,  "  I'd  loike  a  dthrop  of  dthrink,  Bows,  I'm  thirstee." 
And  not  sorry,  perhaps,  to  hear  that  such  was  the  state  of  things,  and 
that  Pen's  forsaken  was  consoling  herself,  Warrington  took  his  leave 
of  the  irascible  musician. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  he  passed  the  lodge  door  just  as  Mr.  Huxter 
was  in  the  act  of  frightening  the  children  with  the  mask  whereof  we 
have  spoken,  and  Fanny  was  smiling  languidly  at  his  farces.  War- 
rington laughed  bitterly.  "  Are  all  women  like  that  ?  "  he  thought. 
"  I  think  there's  one  that's  not,"  he  added,  with  a  sigh. 

At  Piccadilly,  waiting  for  the  Richmond  omnibus,  George  fell  in 
with  Major  Pendennis,  bound  in  the  same  direction,  and  he  told  the 
old  gentleman  of  what  he  had  seen  and  heard  respecting  Fanny. 

Major  Pendennis  was  highly  delighted  :  and  as  might  be  expected 
of  such  a  philosopher,  made  precisely  the  same  observation  as  that 
which  had  escaped  from  Warrington.  "  All  women  are  the  same," 
he  said.  "  La  petite  se  console.  Daymy,  when  I  used  to  read  '  T^ld- 
maque '  at  school.  Calypso  ne  pouvait  se  consoler, — you  know  the 
rest,  Warrington, — I  used  to  say  it  was  absard.  Absard,  by  Gad, 
and  so  it  is.  And  so  she's  got  a  new  soupirant,  has  she,  the  little 
portress  ?  Dayvlish  nice  little  girl.  How  mad  Pen  will  be — eh, 
Warrington  ?  But  we  must  break  it  to  him  gently,  or  he'll  be  Jn  such 
a  rage  that  he  will  be  going  after  her  again.  We  must  7nenager  the 
young  fellow." 

"  I  think  Mrs.  Pendennis  ought  to  know  that  Pen  acted  ver}'  well 
in  the  business.  She  evidently  thinks  him  guilty,  and  according  to 
Mr.  Bows,  Arthur  behaved  like  a  good  fellow,"  Warrington  said. 

"  My  dear  Warrington,"  said  the  Major,  with  a  look  of  some 
alarm,  "  in  Mrs.  Pendennis's  agitated  state  of  health  and  that  sort 
of  thing,  the  best  way,  I  think,  is  not  to  say  a  single  word  about  the 
subject — or,  stay,  leave  it  to  me:  and  I'll  talk  to  her — break  it  to  her 
gently,  you  know,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  I  give  you  my  word  I  will. 
And  so  Calypso's  consoled,  is  she?"  And  he  sniggered  over  this 
gratifying  truth,  happy  in  the  corner  of  the  omnibus  during  the  rest 
of  the  journey. 


PENDENNTS.  543 

Pen  was  very  anxious  to  hear  from  his  envoy  what  had  been  the 
result  of  the  latter's  mission  ;  and  as  soon  as  the  two  young  men  could 
be  alone,  the  ambassador  spoke  in  reply  to  Arthur's  eager  queries. 

"You  remember  your  poem,  Pen,  of  'Ariadne  in  Naxos,'"  War- 
rington said ;  "  devilish  bad  poetry  it  was,  to  be  sure." 

"  Apres  ?"  asked  Pen,  in  a  great  state  of  excitement. 

"  When  Theseus  left  Ariadne,  do  you  remember  what  happened  to 
her,  young  fellow  ? " 

"  It's  a  lie,  it's  a  lie  !  You  don't  mean  that ! "  cried  out  Pen,  starting 
up,  his  face  turning  red. 

"  Sit  down,  stoopid,"  Warrington  said,  and  with  two  fingers  pushed 
Pen  back  into  his  seat  again.  "  It's  better  for  you  as  it  is,  young  one," 
he  said  sadly,  in  reply  to  the  savage  flush  in  Arthur's  face. 


S44 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   LVI. 

FOREIGN'    GROUND. 

MAJOR  PENDENNIS  fulfilled  his  promise  to  Wanington  so 
far  as  to  satisfy  his  o\vn  conscience,  and  in  so  far  to  ease  poor 
Helen  with  regard  to  her  son,  as  to  make  her  understand  that  all 
connexion  between  Arthur  and  the  odious  little  gate-keeper  was  at 
an  end,  and  that  she  need  have  no  farther  anxiety  with  respect  to  an 
imprudent  attachment  or  a  degrading  marriage  on  Pen's  part.  And 
that  young  fello\rs  mind  was  also  relieved  (after  he  had  recovered  the 
shock  to  his  vanity)  by  thinking  that  Miss  Fanny  was  not  going  to 
die  of  love  for  him,  and  that  no  unpleasant  consequences  were  to  be 
apprehended  from  the  luckless  and  brief  connexion. 

So  the  whole  party  were  free  to  carr}'  into  effect  their  projected 
Continental  trip,  and  Arthur  Pendennis,  rentier,  voyageant  a\ec 
Madame  Pendennis  and  Mademoiselle  Bell,  and  George  Warrington, 
particulier,  age  de  32  ans,  taille  6  pieds  (Anglais),  figure  ordinaire, 
cheveux  noirs,  barbe  idem,  (Sec,  procured  passports  from  the  consul 
of  H.  M.  the  King  of  the  Belgians  at  Dover,  and  passed  over  from 
that  port  to  Ostend,  whence  the  party  took  their  way  leisurely,  visiting 
Bruges  and  Ghent  on  their  way  to  Brussels  and  the  Rhine.  It  is  not 
our  purpose  to  describe  this  oft-travelled  tour,  or  Laura's  delight  at  the 
tranquil  and  ancient  cities  which  she  saw  for  the  first  time,  or  Helen's 
wonder  and  interest  at  the  Beguine  convents  which  they  visited,  or 
the  almost  terror  with  which  she  saw  the  black-veiled  nuns  with  out- 
stretched arms  kneehng  before  the  illuminated  altars,  and  beheld  the 
strange  pomps  and  ceremonials  of  the  Catholic  worship.  Bare-footed 
friars  in  the  streets,  crowned  images  of  Saints  and  Virgins  in  the 
churches  before  \vhich  people  were  bowing  down  and  worshipping,  in 
direct  defiance,  as  she  held,  of  the  written  law;  priests  in  gorgeous 
robes,  or  lurking  in  dark  confessionals,  theatres  opened,  and  people 
dancing  on  Sundays ; — all  these  new  sights  and  manners  shocked  and 
bewildered  the  simple  country  lady ;  and  when  the  young  men  after 
their  evening  drive  or  walk  returned  to  the  widow  and  her  adoptcU 
daughter,  they  found  their  books  of  devotion  on  the  table,  and  at  their 
entrance  Laura  would  commonly  cease  reading  some  of  the  psalms  or 
the  sacred  pages  which,  of  all  others,  Helen  loved.     The  late  events 


PENJEXNIS.  545 

connected  with  her  son  had  cruelly  shaken  her;  Laura  watched  with 
intense,  though  hidden  anxiety,  every  movement  of  her  dearest  friend ; 
and  poor  Pen  was  most  constant  and  affectionate  in  waiting  upon  his 
mother,  whose  wounded  bosom  yearned  with  love  towards  him,  though 
there  was  a  secret  between  them,  and  an  anguish  or  rage  almost  on 
the  mother's  part,  to  think  that  she  was  dispossessed  somehow  of  her 
son's  heart,  or  that  there  were  recesses  in  it  which  she  must  not  or 
dared  not  enter.  She  sickened  as  she  thought  of  the  sacred  days  of 
boyhood  when  it  had  not  been  z'y — when  her  Arthur's  heart  had  no 
secrets,  and  she  was  his  all  in  gil :  when  he  poured  his  hopes  and 
pleasures,  his  childish  griefs,  vanities,  triumphs  into  her  willing  and 
tender  embrace ;  when  her  home  was  his  nest  still ;  and  before  fate, 
selfishness,  nature,  had  driven  him  forth  on  wayward  wings — to  range 
on  his  own  flight — to  sing  his  own  song — and  to  seek  his  own  home 
and  his  own  mate.  Watching  this  devouring  care  and  racking  disap- 
pointment in  her  friend,  Laura  once  said  to  Helen,  "  If  Pen  had  loved 
me  as  you  wished,  I  should  have  gained  him,  but  I  should  have  lost 
you,  mamma,  I  know  I  should :  and  I  like  you  to  love  me  l^est.  Men 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  love  as  we  do,  I  think," — and  Helen,  sighing, 
agreed  to  this  portion  of  the  young  lady's  speech,  though  she  protested 
against  the  former  part.  For  my  part,  I  suppose  Miss  Laura  was 
right  in  both  statements,  and  with  regard  to  the  latter  assertion  espe- 
cially, that  it  is  an  old  and  received  truism — love  is  an  hour  with  us  : 
it  is  all  night  and  all  day  with  a  woman.  Damon  has  taxes,  sermon, 
parade,  tailors'  bills,  parliamentary  duties,  and  the  deuce  knows  what 
to  think  of;  Delia  has  to  think  about  Damon — Damon  is  the  oak 
(or  the  post),  and  stands  up,  and  Delia  is  the  ivy  or  the  honeysuckle 
whose  arms  twine  about  him.  Is  it  not  so,  Delia?  Is  it  not  your 
nature  to  creep  about  his  feet  and  kiss  them,  to  twine  round  his  tnmk 
and  hang  there ;  and  Damon's  to  stand  like  a  British  man  with  his 
hands  in  his  breeches-pocket,  while  the  pretty  fond  parasite  clings 
round  him  ? 

Old  Pendennis  had  only  accompanied  our  friends  to  the  water's 
edge,  and  left  them  on  board  the  boat,  giving  the  chief  charge  of  the 
little  expedition  to  Warrington.  He  himself  was  bound  on  a  brief 
visit  to  the  house  of  a  great  man,  a  friend  of  his,  after  which  sojourn 
he  proposed  to  join  his  sister-in-law  at  the  German  watering-place, 
whither  the  party  was  bound.  The  Major  himself  thought  that  his 
long  attentions  to  his  sick  family  had  earned  for  him  a  little  relaxa- 
tion— and  though  the  best  of  the  partridges  were  thinned  off,  the 
pheasants  were  still  to  be  shot  at  Stillbrook,  where  the  noble  owner 
then  was ;  old  Pendennis  betook  himself  to  that  hospitable  mansion 
and  disported  there  with  great  comfort  to  himself.     A  royal  Duke, 

35 


546  PENDENNIS. 

some  foreigners  of  note,  some  illustrious  statesmen,  and  some  pleasant 
people  visited  it ;  it  did  the  old  fellow's  heart  good  to  see  his  name  in 
the  "  Morning  Post "  amongst  the  list  of  the  distinguished  company 
which  the  Marquis  of  Steyne  was  entertaining  at  his  country-house  at 
Stillbrook.  He  was  a  verj'  useful  and  pleasant  personage  in  a  countr)'- 
house.  He  entertained  the  young  men  with  queer  little  anecdotes 
and  grivoises  stories  on  their  shooting-parties  or  in  their  smoking-room, 
where  they  laughed  at  him  and  with  him.  He  was  obsequious  with  the 
ladies  of  a  morning,  in  the  rooms  dedicated  to  them.  He  walked  the 
new  arrivals  about  the  park  and  gardens,  and  showed  them  the  carte 
dii  pays,  and  where  there  was  the  best  view  of  the  mansion,  and  where 
the  most  favourable  point  to  look  at  the  lake :  he  showed  where  the 
timber  was  to  be  felled,  and  where  the  old  road  went  before  the  new 
bridge  was  built,  and  the  hill  cut  down  ;  and  where  the  place  in  the 
wood  was  where  old  Lord  Lynx  discovered  Sir  Phelim  O'Neal  on  his 
knees  before  her  ladyship,  &c.  &;c. ;  he  called  the  lodge-keepers  and 
gardeners  by  their  names :  he  knew  the  number  of  domestics  that  sat 
down  in  the  housekeeper's  room,  and  how  many  dined  in  the  servants' 
hall ;  he  had  a  word  for  everybody,  and  about  everj'body,  and  a  little 
against  everybody.  He  was  invaluable  in  a  country-house,  in  a  word : 
and  richly  merited  and  enjoyed  his  vacation  after  his  labours.  And 
perhaps  whilst  he  was  thus  deservedly  enjopng  himself  with  his 
country  friends,  the  Major  was  not  ill-pleased  at  transferring  to  War- 
rington the  command  of  the  family  expedition  to  the  Continent,  and 
thus  perforce  keeping  him  in  the  service  of  the  ladies, — a  servitude 
which  George  was  only  too  wdling  to  undergo,  for  his  friend's  sake, 
and  for  that  of  a  society  which  he  found  daily  more  dehghtful.  War- 
rington was  a  good  German  scholar,  and  was  willing  to  give  Miss 
Laura  lessons  in  the  language,  who  was  ver}-  glad  to  improve  herself; 
though  Pen,  for  his  part,  was  too  weak  or  lazy  now  to  resimie  his 
German  studies.  Warrington  acted  as  courier  and  interpreter ;  War- 
rington saw  the  baggage  in  and  out  of  ships,  inns,  and  carriages, 
managed  the  money  matters,  and  put  the  little  troop  into  marching 
order.  Warrington  found  out  where  the  English  church  was,  and  if 
Mrs.  Pendennis  and  Miss  Laura  were  inclined  to  go  thither,  walked 
with  great  decorum  along  with  them.  Warrington  walked  by  Mrs. 
Pendennis's  donkey,  when  that  lady  went  out  on  her  evening  excur- 
sions; or  took  carriages  for  her;  or  got  "Galignani"  for  her;  or 
devised  comfortable  seats  under  the  lime-trees  for  her,  when  the  guests 
paraded  after  dinner,  and  the  Kursaal  band  at  the  bath,  where  our 
tked  friends  stopped,  performed  their  pleasant  music  under  the  trees. 
Many  a  fine  whiskered  Prussian  or  French  dandy,  come  to  the  bath 
for  the  "  Tratfe-et-qjtarante,"  cast  glances  of  longing  towards  the 
pretty  fresh-coloured  English  girl  who  accompanied  the  pale  widow, 


PENDEXiXIS.  547 

and  would  have  longed  to  take  a  turn  with  her  at  the  galop  or  the 
waltz.  But  Laura  did  not  appear  in  the  ball-room,  except  once  or 
twice,  when  Pen  vouchsafed  to  walk  with  her;  and  as  for  Warrington, 
that  rough  diamond  had  not  had  the  polish  of  a  dancing-master,  and 
he  did  not  know  how  to  waltz, — though  he  would  have  liked  to  learn, 
if  he  could  have  had  such  a  partner  as  Laura. — Such  a  partner !  psha, 
what  had  a  stiff  bachelor  to  do  with  partners  and  waltzing  ?  what  was 
he  about,  dancing  attendance  here  ?  drinking  in  sweet  pleasure  at  a 
risk  he  knows  not  of  what  after  sadness,  and  regret,  and  lonely 
longing  ?  But  yet  he  stayed  on.  You  would  have  said  he  was  the 
widow's  son,  to  watch  his  constant  care  and  watchfulness  of  her ;  or 
that  he  was  an  adventurer,  and  wanted  to  marry  her  fortune,  or,  at 
any  rate,  that  he  wanted  some  very  great  treasure  or  benefit  from  her, 
— and  very  likely  he  did,— for  ours,  as  the  reader  has  possibly  already 
discovered,  is  a  Selfish  Story,  and  almost  every  person,  according  to 
his  nature,  more  or  less  generous  than  George,  and  according  to  the 
way  of  the  world  as  it  seems  to  us,  is  occupied  about  Number  One. 
So  Warrington  selfishly  devoted  himself  to  Helen,  who  selfishly 
devoted  herself  to  Pen,  who  selfishly  devoted  himself  to  himself  at 
this  present  period,  having  no  other  personage  or  object  to  occupy 
him,  except,  indeed,  his  mother's  health,  which  gave  him  a  serious 
and  real  disquiet ;  but  though  they  sate  together,  they  did  not  talk 
much,  and  the  cloud  was  always  between  them. 

Every  day  Laura  looked  for  Warrington,  and  received  him  with 
more  frank  and  eager  welcome.  He  found  himself  talking  to  her  as 
he  didn't  know  himself  that  he  could  talk.  He  found  himself  per- 
forming acts  of  gallantry  which  astounded  him  after  the  performance : 
he  found  himself  looking  blankly  in  the  glass  at  the  crow's-feet  round 
his  eyes,  and  at  some  streaks  of  white  in  his  hair,  and  some  intrusive 
silver  bristles  in  his  grim,  blue  beard.  He  found  himself  looking  at 
the  young  bucks  at  the  bath — at  the  blond,  tight-waisted  Germans — at 
the  capering  Frenchmen,  with  their  lacquered  mustachios  and  trim 
varnished  boots — at  the  English  dandies.  Pen  amongst  them,  with 
their  calm  domineering  air,  and  insolent  languor:  and  envied  each 
oi>e  of  these  some  excellence  or  quality  of  youth  or  good  looks,  which 
he  possessed,  and  of  which  Warrington  felt  the  need.  And  every 
night,  as  the  night  came,  he  quitted  the  little  circle  with  greater 
reluctance ;  and,  retiring  to  his  own  lodging  in  their  neighbourhood, 
felt  himself  the  more  lonely  and  unhappy.  The  widow  could  not  help 
seeing  his  attachment.  She  understood,  now,  why  Major  Pendennis 
(always  a  tacit  enemy  of  her  darling  project)  had  been  so  eager  that 
Warrington  should  be  of  their  party.  Laura  frankly  owned  her  great, 
her  enthusiastic,  regard  for  him :  and  Arthur  would  make  no  move- 
ment    Arthur  did  not  choose  to  see  what  was  going  on ;  or  did  not 


548  PEADENNIS. 

care  to  prevent,  or  actually  encouraged,  it.  She  remembered  his 
often  having  said  that  he  could  not  understand  how  a  man  proposed 
to  a  woman  twice.  She  was  in  torture — at  secret  feud  with  her  son, 
of  all  objects  in  the  world  the  dearest  to  her — in  doubt,  which  she 
dared  not  express  to  herself,  about  Laura — averse  to  Warrington,  the 
good  and  generous.  No  wonder  that  the  healing  waters  of  Rosenbad 
did  not  do  her  good,  or  that  Doctor  von  Glauber,  the  bath  physician, 
when  he  came  to  visit  her,  found  that  the  poor  lady  made  no  progress 
to  recover)'.  Meanwhile  Pen  got  well  rapidly;  slept  with  immense 
perseverance  twelve  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four;  ate  huge  meals; 
and,  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of  months,  had  almost  got  back  the  bodily 
strength  and  weight  which  he  had  possessed  before  his  illness. 

After  they  had  passed  some  fifteen  days  at  their  place  of  rest  and 
refreshment,  a  letter  came  from  Major  Pendennis  announcing  his  speedy 
arrival  at  Rosenbad,  and,  soon  after  the  letter,  the  Major  himself  made 
his  appearance,  accompanied  by  Morgan  his  faithful  valet,  without 
whom  the  old  gentleman  could  not  move.  When  the  Major  travelled 
he  wore  a  jaunty  and  juvenile  travelling  costume ;  to  see  his  back  still 
you  w^ould  have  taken  him  for  one  of  the  young  fellows  whose  slim 
waist  and  youthful  appearance  Warrington  v.-as  beginning  to  envy.  It 
was  not  until  the  worthy  man  began  to  move,  that  the  observer  remarked 
that  Time  had  weakened  his  ancient  knees,  and  had  unkindly  inter- 
fered to  impede  the  action  of  the  natty  little  varnished  boots  in  which 
the  gay  old  traveller  still  pinched  his  toes.  There  were  magnates,  both 
of  our  own  country  and  of  foreign  nations,  present  that  autumn  at 
Rosenbad.  The  elder  Pendennis  read  over  the  strangers'  list  with 
great  gratification  on  the  night  of  his  arrival,  was  pleased  to  find 
several  of  his  acquaintances  among  the  great  folks,  and  would  have  the 
honour  of  presenting  his  nephew  to  a  German  Grand  Duchess,  a 
Russian  Princess,  and  an  English  Marquis,  before  many  days  were 
over :  nor  was  Pen  by  any  means  averse  to  making  the  acquaintance 
of  these  great  personages,  having  a  liking  for  polite  life,  and  all  the 
splendours  and  amenities  belonging  to  it.  That  very  evening  the  reso- 
lute old  gentleman,  leaning  on  his  nephew's  arm,  made  his  appearance 
in  the  halls  of  the  Kursaal,  and  lost  or  won  a  napoleon  or  two  at  the 
table  of  T7-£nte-et-qtiarante.  He  did  not  play  to  lose,  he  said,  or  to 
win ;  but  he  did  as  other  folks  did,  and  betted  his  napoleon  and  took 
his  luck  as  it  came.  He  pointed  out  the  Russians  and  Spaniards 
gambling  for  heaps  of  gold,  and  denounced  their  eagerness  as  some- 
thing sordid  and  barbarous ;  an  English  gentleman  should  play  where 
the  fashion  is  play,  but  should  not  elate  or  depress  himself  at  the 
sport ;  and  he  told  how  he  had  seen  his  friend  the  Marquis  of  Steyno. 
when  Lord  Gaunt,  lose  eighteen  thousand  at  a  sitting,  and  break  the 
bank  three  nights  running  at  Paris,  without  ever  showing  the  least 


PENDENNIS.  549 

emotion  at  his  defeat  or  victoiy — "And  that's  what  I  call  being  an 
English  gentleman,  Pen,  my  dear  boy,"  the  old  gentleman  said, 
warming  as  he  prattled  about  his  recollections — "  what  I  call  the 
great  manner  only  remains  with  us  and  with  a  few  families  in  France." 
And  as  Russian  Princesses  passed  him,  whose  reputation  had  long 
ceased  to  be  doubtful,  and  damaged  English  ladies,  who  are  con- 
stantly seen  in  company  of  their  faithful  attendant  for  the  time  being 
in  these  gay  haunts  of  dissipation,  the  old  Major,  with  eager  gar- 
rulity and  mischievous  relish,  told  his  nephew  wonderful  particu- 
lars regarding  the  lives  of  these  heroines;  and  diverted  the  young 
man  with  a  thousand  scandals.  Egad,  he  felt  himself  quite  young 
again,  he  remarked  to  Pen,  as,  rouged  and  grinning,  her  enormous 
chasseur  behind  her  bearing  her  shawl,  the  Princess  Obstropski 
smiled  and  recognized  and  accosted  him.  He  remembered  her  in  '14 
when  she  was  an  actress  of  the  Paris  Boulevard,  and  the  Emperor 
Alexander's  aide-de-camp  Obstropski  (a  man  of  great  talents,  who 
knew  a  good  deal  about  the  Emperor  Paul's  death,  and  was  a  devil  to 
play)  married  her.  He  most  courteously  and  respectfully  asked  leave 
to  call  upon  the  Princess,  and  to  present  to  her  his  nephew,  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis;  and  he  pointed  out  to  the  latter  a  half-dozen  of  other 
personages  whose  names  were  as  famous,  and  whose  histories  were  as 
edifying.  What  would  poor  Helen  have  thought,  could  she  have  heard 
those  tales,  or  known  to  what  kind  of  people  her  brother-in-law  was 
presenting  her  son  ?  Only  once,  leaning  on  Arthur's  arm,  she  had 
passed  through  the  room  where  the  green  tables  were  prepared  for 
play,  and  the  croaking  croupiers  were  calling  out  their  fatal  words  of 
Rouge  gagne  and  Coitleur  perd.  She  had  shrunk  terrified  out  of  the 
Pandemonium,  imploring  Pen,  extorting  from  him  a  promise,  on  his 
word  of  honour,  that  he  would  never  play  at  those  tables ;  and  the 
scene  which  so  frightened  the  simple  widow,  only  amused  the  worldly 
old  veteran,  and  made  him  young  again !  He  could  breathe  the  air 
cheerfully  which  stifled  her.  Her  right  was  not  his  right :  his  food 
was  her  poison.  Human  creatures  are  constituted  thus  differently, 
and  with  this  variety  the  marvellous  world  is  peopled.  To  the  credit 
of  Mr.  Pen,  let  it  be  said,  that  he  kept  honestly  the  promise  made  to 
Ills  mother,  and  stoutly  told  his  uncle  of  his  intention  to  abide  by  it. 

When  the  Major  arrived,  his  presence  somehow  cast  a  damp  upon 
at  least  three  of  the  persons  of  our  little  party — upon  Laura,  who  had 
anything  but  respect  for  him ;  upon  Warrington,  whose  manner  towards 
him  showed  an  involuntary  haughtiness  and  contempt ;  and  upon  the 
timid  and  alarmed  widow,  who  dreaded  lest  he  should  interfere  with 
her  darling,  though  almost  desperate,  projects  for  her  boy.  And,  indeed, 
the  Major,  unknown  to  himself,  was  the  bearer  of  tidings  which  were 
to  bring  about  a  catastrophe  in  the  affairs  of  all  our  friends. 


550  PENDENNIS. 

Pen  with  his  two  ladies  had  apartments  in  the  town  of  Rosenbad ; 
honest  Warrington  had  lodgings  hard  by;  the  Major,  on  arrival  at 
Rosenbad,  had,  as  befitted  his  dignity,  taken  up  his  quarters  at  one  of 
the  great  hotels,  at  the  Roman  Emperor  or  the  Four  Seasons,  where 
two  or  three  hundred  gamblers,  pleasure-seekers,  or  invalids,  sate  down 
and  over-ate  themselves  daily  at  the  enormous  table-d'hote.  To  this 
hotel  Pen  went  on  the  morning  after  the  Major's  arrival,  dutifully  to 
pay  his  respects  to  his  uncle,  and  found  the  latter's  sitting-room  duly 
prepared  and  arranged  by  Mr.  Morgan,  with  the  Major's  hats  brushed, 
and  his  coats  laid  out:  his  despatch-boxes  and  umbrella-cases,  his 
guide-books,  passports,  maps,  and  other  elaborate  necessaries  of  the 
English  traveller,  all  as  trim  and  ready  as  they  could  be  in  their 
master's  own  room  in  Bury  Street.  Everything  was  ready,  from 
the  medicine-bottle  fresh  filled  from  the  pharmacien's,  down  to  the 
old  fello^v's  prayer-book,  without  which  he  never  travelled,  for  he  made 
a  point  of  appearing  at  the  English  church  at  every  place  which  he 
honoured  with  a  stay.  "  Everybody  did  it,"  he  said ;  "  every  English 
gentleman  did  it : "  and  this  pious  man  would  as  soon  have  thought 
of  not  calling  upon  the  English  ambassador  in  a  continental  town,  as 
of  not  showing  himself  at  the  national  place  of  worship. 

The  old  gentleman  had  been  to  take  one  of  the  baths  for  which 
Rosenbad  is  famous,  and  which  everj-body  takes,  and  his  after-bath 
toilet  was  not  yet  completed  when  Pen  arrived.  The  elder  called  out 
to  Arthur  in  a  cheery  voice  from  the  inner  apartment,  in  which  he  and 
Morgan  were  engaged,  and  the  valet  presently  came  in,  bearing  a  little 
packet  to  Pen's  address — Mr.  Arthur's  letters  and  papers,  Morgan  said, 
which  he  had  brought  from  Mr.  Arthur's  chambers  in  London,  and 
which  consisted  chiefly  of  numbers  of  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette,"  which 
our  friend  Mr.  Finucane  thought  his  collaboraieur  would  like  to  sec. 
The  papers  were  tied  together :  the  letters  in  an  envelope,  addressed 
to  Pen,  in  the  last-named  gentleman's  handwriting. 

Amongst  the  letters  there  was  a  little  note  addressed,  as  a  former 
letter  we  have  heard  of  had  been,  to  "  Arther  Pendennis,  Esquire," 
which  Arthur  opened  with  a  start  and  a  blush,  and  read  with  a  very 
keen  pang  of  interest,  and  sorrow,  and  regard.  She  had  come  to 
Arthur's  house,  Fanny  Bolton  said — and  found  that  he  was  gone — 
gone  away  to  Germany  \vithout  ever  leaN-ing  a  word  for  her — or  answer 
to  her  last  letter,  in  which  she  prayed  but  for  one  word  of  kindness — 
or  the  books  which  he  had  promised  her  in  happier  times,  before  he 
was  ill,  and  which  she  should  like  to  keep  in  remembrance  of  him. 
She  said  she  would  not  reproach  those  w-ho  had  found  her  at  his  bed- 
side when  he  was  in  the  fever,  and  knew  nobody,  and  who  had  turned 
the  poor  girl  away  without  a  word.  She  thought  she  should  have 
died,  she  said,  of  that,  but  Doctor  Goodenough  had  kindlv  tended 


PENDENNIS.  551 

her,  and  kep'  her  life,  when,  perhaps,  the  keeping  of  it  was  of  no  good, 
and  she  forgave  everybody :  and  as  for  Arthur,  she  would  pray  for  him 
for  ever.  And  when  he  was  so  ill,  and  they  cut  off  his  hair,  she  had 
made  so  free  as  to  keep  one  little  lock  for  herself,  and  that  she  owned. 
And  might  she  still  keep  it,  or  would  his  mamma  order  that  that 
should  be  gave  up  too  ?  She  was  willing  to  obey  him  in  all  things, 
and  couldn't  but  remember  that  once  he  was  so  kind,  oh !  so  good  and 
kind !  to  his  poor  Fanny. 

When  Major  Pendennis,  fresh  and  smirking  from  his  toilet,  came 
out  of  his  bed-room  to  his  sitting-room,  he  found  Arthur,  with  this 
note  before  him,  and  an  expression  of  savage  anger  on  his  face,  which 
surprised  the  elder  gentleman.  "What  news  from  London,  my  boyi"' 
he  rather  faintly  asked ;  "  are  the  duns  at  you,  that  you  look  so  glum  ?" 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  this  letter,  sir  ? "  Arthur  asked. 

"What  letter,  my  good  sir.?"  said  the  other  drily,  at  once  per- 
ceiving what  had  happened. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean — about,  about  Miss — about  Fanny  Bolton 
— the  poor  dear  little  girl,"  Arthur  broke  out.  "  When  was  she  in  my 
room  ?  Was  she  there  when  I  was  delirious — I  fancied  she  was — was 
she  ?  Who  sent  her  out  of  my  chambers  ?  Who  intercepted  her 
letters  to  me  ?     Who  dared  to  do  it  ?     Did  you  do  it,  uncle  ?" 

"  It's  not  my  practice  to  tamper  with  gentlemen's  letters,  or  to 
answer  damned  impertinent  questions,"  Major  Pendennis  cried  out,  in 
a  great  tremor  of  emotion  and  indignation.  "  There  was  a  girl  in  your 
rooms  when  I  came  up  at  great  personal  inconvenience,  daymy — and 
to  meet  with  a  return  of  this  kind  for  my  affection  to  you,  is  not  plea- 
sant, by  Gad,  sir — not  at  all  pleasant." 

"That's  not  the  question,  sir,"  Arthur  said  hotly — "and — and,  I 
beg  your  pardon,  uncle.  You  were,  you  always  have  been,  most  kind 
to  me :  but  I  say  again,  did  you  say  anything  harsh  ro  this  poor  girl  ? 
Did  you  send  her  away  from  me  ?  " 

"  I  never  spoke  a  word  to  the  girl,"  the  uncle  said,  "  and  I  never 
sent  her  away  from  you,  and  know  no  more  about  her,  and  wish  to 
know  no  more  about  her,  than  about  the  man  in  the  moon." 

"  Then  it's  my  mother  that  did  it,"  Arthur  broke  out.  "  Did  my 
mother  send  that  poor  child  away  ? " 

"  I  repeat  I  know  nothing  about  it,  sir,"  the  elder  said  testily. 
"  Let's  change  the  subject,  if  you  please." 

"  I'll  never  forgive  the  person  who  did  it,"  said  Arthur,  bouncing 
up  and  seizing  his  hat. 

The  Major  cried  out,  "  Stop,  Arthur,  for  God's  sake,  stop ! "  but 
before  he  had  uttered  his  sentence,  Arthur  had  rushed  out  of  the  room, 
and  at  the  next  minute  the  Major  saw  him  striding  rapidly  down  the 
street  that  led  towards  his  home. 


552 


f£,\de:\\\'is. 


"  Get  breakfast ! "  said  the  old  fellow  to  Morgan,  and  he  wagged 
liis  head  and  sighed  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window.  "  Poor  Helen — 
poor  soul !  There'll  be  a  row.  I  knew  there  would :  and  begad  all  the 
fat's  in  the  fire. ' 

When  Pen  reached  home  he  only  found  Warrington  in  the  ladies' 
drawing-room,  waiting  their  arrival  in  order  to  conduct  them  to  the 
place  where  the  little  English  colony  at  Rosenbad  held  their  Sunday 
church.  Helen  and  Laura  had  not  appeared  as  yet;  the  former  was 
ailing,  and  her  daughter  was  with  her.  Pen's  wrath  was  so  great  that 
he  could  not  defer  expressing  it.  He  flung  Fanny's  letter  across  the 
table  to  his  friend.  "  Look  there,  Warrington,"  he  said ;  '•  she  tended 
me  in  my  illness,  she  rescued  me  out  of  the  jaws  of  death,  and  this 
is  the  way  they  have  treated  the  dear  little  creature.  They  have  kept 
her  letters  from  me ;  they  have  treated  me  like  a  child,  and  her  like  a 
dog,  poor  thing!     My  mother  has  done  this." 

"  If  she  has,  you  must  remember  it  is  your  mother,"  Warrington 
interposed. 

"  It  only  makes  the  crime  the  greater,  because  it  is  she  who  has 
done  it,"  Pen  answered.  "She  ought  to  have  been  the  poor  girl's 
defender,  not  her  enemy ;  she  ought  to  go  dowm  on  her  knees  and 
ask  pardon  of  her.  I  ought  !  I  will  I  I  am  shocked  at  the  cruelty 
which  has  been  shown  her.  What?  She  gave  me  her  all,  and  this 
is  her  return  !    She  sacrifices  everything  for  me,  and  they  spurn  her." 

"  Hush ! "  said  Warrington ;  "  they  can  hear  you  from  the  next 
room." 

"  Hear.^  let  them  hear  I "  Pen  cried  out,  only  so  much  the  louder. 
"  Those  may  overhear  my  talk  who  intercept  my  letters.  I  say  this 
poor  girl  has  been  shamefully  used,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  right  her ; 
I  will." 

The  door  of  the  neighbouring  room  opened,  and  Laura  came  forth 
with  pale  and  stern  face.  She  looked  at  Pen  with  glances  from  which 
beamed  pride,  defiance,  aversion.  "  Arthur,  your  mother  is  very  ill,'" 
she  said ;  "  it  is  a  pity  that  you  should  speak  so  loud  as  to  disturb 
her." 

"  It  is  a  pity  that  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  speak  at  all,"  Pen 
answered.     "And  I  have  more  to  say  before  I  have  done."' 

"  I  should  think  what  you  have  to  say  will  hardly  be  fit  for  me  to 
hear,"  Laura  said,  haughtily. 

"  You  are  welcome  to  hear  it  or  not,  as  you  like,"  said  Mr.  Pen. 
"  I  shall  go  in  now,  and  speak  to  my  mother." 

Laura  came  rapidly  forward,  so  that  she  should  not  be  overheard 
by  her  friend  within.  "  Not  now,  sir,"  she  said  to  Pen.  "  You  may 
kill  her  if  you  do.  Your  conduct  has  gone  far  enough  to  make  her 
wretched." 


PENDENNIS.  553 

"  What  conduct  ? "  cried  out  Pen,  in  a  fury,  "  Who  dares  impugn 
it  ?  Who  dares  meddle  with  me  ?  Is  it  you  who  are  the  instigator  of 
this  persecution  ?  " 

"  I  said  before  it  was  a  subject  of  which  it  did  not  become  me  to 
hear  or  to  speak,"  Laura  said.  "  But  as  for  mamma,  if  she  had  acted 
otherwise  than  she  did  with  regard  to — to  the  person  about  whom  you 
seem  to  take  such  an  interest,  it  would  have  been  I  that  must  have 
quitted  your  house,  and  not  that — that  person." 

"  By  heavens !  this  is  too  much,"  Pen  cried  out,  with  a  violent 
execration. 

"  Perhaps  that  is  what  you  wished,"  Laura  said,  tossing  her  head 
up.  "  No  more  of  this,  if  you  please ;  I  am  not  accustomed  to  hear 
such  subjects  spoken  of  in  such  language ; "  and  with  a  stately  curtsey 
the  young  lady  passed  to  her  friend's  room,  looking  her  adversary  full 
in  the  face  as  she  retreated  and  closed  the  door  upon  him. 

Pen  was  bewildered  with  wonder,  perplexity,  fury,  at  this  monstrous 
and  unreasonable  persecution.  He  burst  out  into  a  loud  and  bitter 
laugh  as  Laura  quitted  him,  and  with  sneers  and  revilings,  as  a  man 
who  jeers  under  an  operation,  ridiculed  at  once  his  own  pain  and  his 
persecutors  anger.  The  laugh,  which  was  one  of  bitter  humour,  and 
no  unmanly  or  unkindly  expression  of  suffering  under  most  cruel  and 
unmerited  torture,  was  heard  in  the  next  apartment,  as  some  of  his 
unlucky  previous  expressions  had  been,  and,  like  them,  entirely  mis- 
interpreted by  the  hearers.  It  struck  like  a  dagger  into  the  wounded 
and  tender  heart  of  Helen ;  it  pierced  Laura,  and  inflamed  the  high- 
spirited  girl  with  scorn  and  anger.  '"And  it  was  to  this  hardened 
libertine,"  she  thought — "  to  this  boaster  of  low  intrigues,  that  I  had 
given  my  heart  away."  "  He  breaks  the  most  sacred  laws,"  thought 
Helen.  "  He  prefers  the  creature  of  his  passion  to  his  own  mother; 
and  when  he  is  upbraided,  he  laughs,  and  glories  in  his  crime.  '  She 
gave  me  her  all,'  I  heard  him  say  it,"  argued  the  poor  widow ;  "  and 
he  boasts  of  it,  and  laughs,  and  breaks  his  mother's  heart."  The  emo- 
tion, the  shame,  the  grief,  the  mortification,  almost  killed  her.  She 
felt  she  should  die  of  his  unkindness. 

Warrington  thought  of  Laura's  speech — "  Perhaps  that  is  what  you 
wished."  "  She  loves  Pen  still,"  he  said.  "  It  was  jealousy  made  her 
speak."—"  Come  away.  Pen.  Come  away,  and  let  us  go  to  church 
and  get  calm.  You  must  explain  this  matter  to  your  mother.  She 
does  not  appear  to  know  the  truth :  nor  do  you  quite,  my  good  fellow. 
Come  away,  and  let  us  talk  about  it."  And  again  he  muttered  to 
himself,  " '  Perhaps  that  is  what  you  wished.'  Yes,  she  loves  him. 
Why  shouldn't  she  love  him  ?  Whom  else  would  I  have  her  love  ? 
What  can  she  be  to  me  but  the  dearest  and  the  fairest  and  the  best 
of  women?" 


554 


PENDENNIS. 


So,  leaving  the  women  similarly  engaged  within,  the  two  gentle- 
men walked  away,  each  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts,  and  silent 
for  a  considerable  space.  "  I  must  set  this  matter  right,"  thought 
honest  George,  "  as  she  loves  him  still — I  must  set  his  mother's  mind 
right  about  the  other  woman."  And  with  this  charitable  thought,  the 
good  fellow  began  to  tell  more  at  large  what  Bows  had  said  to  him 
regarding  Miss  Bolton's  behaviour  and  fickleness,  and  he  described 
how  the  girl  was  no  better  than  a  light-minded  flirt ;  and,  perhaps, 
he  exaggerated  the  good  humour  and  contentedness  which  he  had 
himself,  as  he  thought,  witnessed  in  her  behaviour  in  the  scene  with 
Mr.  Huxter. 

Now  all  Bows's  statements  had  been  coloured  by  an  insane  jealousy 
and  rage  on  that  old  man's  part ;  and  instead  of  allaying  Pen's  renas- 
cent desire  to  see  his  little  conquest  again,  Warrington's  accounts 
inflamed  and  angered  Pendennis,  and  made  him  more  anxious  than 
before  to  set  himself  right,  as  he  persisted  in  phrasing  it,  with  Fanny. 
They  arrived  at  the  church-door  presently  ;  but  scarce  one  word  of 
the  service,  and  not  a  syllable  of  Mr.  Shamble's  sermon,  did  either  of 
them  comprehend,  probably — so  much  was  each  engaged  with  his 
own  private  speculations.  The  Major  came  up  to  them  after  the 
service,  with  his  well-brushed  hat  and  wig,  and  his  jauntiest,  most 
cheerful,  air.  He  complimented  them  upon  being  seen  at  church  ; 
again  he  said  that  ever>'  comtne-il-faut  person  made  a  point  of  attending 
the  Enghsh  service  abroad  ;  and  he  walked  back  with  the  young  men, 
prattling  to  them  in  garrulous  good-humour,  and  making  bows  to  his 
acquaintances  as  they  passed  ;  and  thinking  innocently  that  Pen  and 
George  were  both  highly  delighted  by  his  anecdotes,  which  they  suffered 
to  run  on  in  a  scornful  and  silent  acquiescence. 

At  the  time  of  Mr,  Shamble's  sermon  (an  erratic  Anglican  divine, 
hired  for  the  season  at  places  of  English  resort,  and  addicted  to  debts, 
drinking,  and  even  to  roulette,  it  was  said),  Pen,  chafing  under  the 
persecution  which  his  womankind  inflicted  upon  him,  had  been  medi- 
tating a  great  act  of  revolt  and  of  justice,  as  he  had  worked  himself 
up  to  believe ;  and  Warrington  on  his  part  had  been  thinking  that 
a  crisis  in  his  affairs  had  likewise  come,  and  that  it  was  necessary 
for  him  to  break  away  from  a  connection  which  every  day  made  mere 
and  more  wretched  and  dear  to  him.  Yes,  the  time  was  come.  He 
took  those  fatal  words,  "  Perhaps  that  is  what  you  wished,"  as  a  text 
for  a  gloomy  homily,  which  he  preached  to  himself,  in  the  dark  crypt 
of  his  own  heart,  whilst  Mr.  Shamble  was  feebly  giving  utterance  to 
his  sermon. 


PENDENNIS. 


555 


CHAPTER   LVII. 
"fairoaks   to   le t." 

OUR  poor  widow  (with  the  assistance  of  her  faithful  Martha  of 
Fairoaks,  who  laughed  and  wondered  at  the  German  ways,  and 
superintended  the  affairs  of  the  simple  household)  had  made  a  little 
feast  in  honour  of  Major  Pendennis's  arrival,  of  which,  however,  only 
the  Major  and  his  two  younger  friends  partook,  for  Helen  sent  to  say 
that  she  was  too  unwell  to  dine  at  their  table,  and  Laura  bore  her 
company.  The  Major  talked  for  the  party,  and  did  not  perceive,  or 
choose  to  perceive,  what  a  gloom  and  silence  pervaded  the  other  two 
sharers  of  the  modest  dinner.  It  was  evening  before  Helen  and 
Laura  came  into  the  sitting-room  to  join  the  company  there.  She 
came  in  leaning  on  Laura,  with  her  back  to  the  waning  light,  so  that 
Arthur  could  not  see  how  pallid  and  woe-stricken  her  face  was ;  and 
as  she  went  up  to  Pen,  whom  she  had  not  seen  during  the  day,  and 
placed  her  fond  arms  on  his  shoulder  and  kissed  him  tenderly,  Laura 
left  her,  and  moved  away  to  another  part  of  the  room.  Pen  remarked 
that  his  mother's  voice  and  her  whole  frame  trembled,  her  hand  was 
clammy  cold  as  she  put  it  up  to  his  forehead,  piteously  embracing 
him.  The  spectacle  of  her  misery  only  added,  somehow,  to  the  wrath 
and  testiness  of  the  young  man.  He  scarcely  returned  the  kiss  which 
the  suffering  lady  gave  him  :  and  the  countenance  with  which  he  met 
the  appeal  of  her  look  was  hard  and  cruel.  "  She  persecutes  me,"  he 
thought  within  himself,  "  and  she  comes  to  me  with  the  air  of  a 
martyr."  "  You  look  very  ill,  my  child,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  hke  to  see 
you  look  in  that  way."  And  she  tottered  to  a  sofa,  still  holding  one 
of  his  passive  hands  in  her  thin  cold  clinging  fingers. 

"  I  have  had  much  to  annoy  me,  mother,"  Pen  said,  with  a 
throbbing  breast  :  and  as  he  spoke  Helen's  heart  began  to  beat  so, 
that  she  sate  almost  dead  and  speechless  with  terror. 

Warrington,  Laura,  and  Major  Pendennis,  all  remained  breathless, 
aware  that  the  storm  was  about  to  break. 

"  I  have  had  letters  from  London,"  Arthur  continued,  "  and  one 
that  has  given  me  more  pain  than  I  ever  had  in  my  life.  It  tells  me 
that  former  letters  of  mine  have  been  intercepted  and  purloined  away 
from  me; — that — that  a  young  creature  who  has  shown  the  greatest 


556  PENDEA'NIS. 

love  and  care  for  me,  has  been  most  cruelly  used  by  — by  you, 
mother." 

"  For  God's  sake  stop,"  cried  out  Warrington.  "  She's  ill — don't 
you  see  she  is  ill  ?  " 

"  Let  him  go  on,"  said  the  widow,  faintly. 

"  Let  him  go  on  and  kill  her,"  said  Laura,  rushing  up  to  her 
mother's  side.     "  Speak  on,  sir,  and  see  her  die." 

"  It  is  you  who  are  cruel,"  cried  Pen,  more  exasperated  and  more 
savage,  because  his  own  heart,  naturally  soft  and  weak,  revolted  indig- 
nantly at  the  injustice  of  the  very  suffering  which  was  laid  at  his  door. 
"  It  is  you  who  are  cruel,  who  attribute  all  this  pain  to  me :  it  is  you 
who  are  cruel  with  your  wicked  reproaches,  your  wicked  doubts  of  me, 
your  wicked  persecutions  of  those  who  love  me, — yes,  those  who  love 
me,  and  who  brave  everything  for  me,  and  whom  you  despise  and 
trample  upon  because  they  are  of  lower  degree  than  you.  Shall  I  tell 
you  what  I  vnW  do, — what  I  am  resolved  to  do,  now  that  I  know  what 
your  conduct  has  been  ? — I  will  go  back  to  this  poor  girl  whom  you 
turned  out  of  my  doors,  and  ask  her  to  come  back  and  share  my  home 
with  me.  I'll  defy  the  pride  which  persecutes  her,  and  the  pitiless 
suspicion  which  insults  her  and  me.'' 

''  Do  you  mean,  Pen,  that  you — ''  here  the  widow,  with  eager  eyes 
and  out-stretched  hands,  was  breaking  out,  but  Laura  stopped  her : 
"  Silence,  hush,  dear  mother,"  she  cried,  and  the  widow  hushed. 
Savagely  as  Pen  spoke,  she  was  only  too  eager  to  hear  what  more  he 
had  to  say.  "  Go  on,  Arthur,  go  on,  Arthur,"  was  all  she  said,  almost 
swooning  away  as  she  spoke. 

"  By  Gad,  I  say  he  shan't  go  on,  or  I  won't  hear  him,  by  Gad,"  the 
Major  said,  trembling  too  in  his  wrath.  '"  If  you  choose,  sir,  after  all 
we've  done  for  you,  after  all  I've  done  for  you  myself,  to  insult  your 
mother  and  disgrace  your  name,  by  allying  yourself  with  a  low-bom 
kitchen-girl,  go  and  do  it,  by  Gad, — but  let  us,  ma'am,  have  no  more 
to  do  with  him.  I  wash  my  hands  of  you,  sir, — I  wash  my  hands  of 
you.  I'm  an  old  fellov.-, — I  ain't  long  for  this  world.  I  come  of  as 
ancient  and  honourable  a  family  as  any  in  England,  and  I  did  hope, 
before  I  went  off  the  hooks,  by  Gad,  that  the  fellow  that  I'd  liked,  and 
brought  up,  and  nursed  through  life,  by  Jove,  would  do  something  to 
show  me  that  our  name — yes,  the  name  of  Pendennis,  was  left  undis- 
honoured  behind  us ;  but  if  he  won't,  dammy,  I  say,  Amen.  By  G — , 
both  my  father  and  my  brother  Jack  were  the  proudest  men  in 
England,  and  I  never  would  have  thought  that  there  would  come 
this  disgrace  to  my  name,— never— and— and  I'm  ashamed  that  it's 
Arthur  Pendennis."  The  old  fellow's  voice  here  broke  oft"  into  a  sob : 
it  was  the  second  time  that  Arthur  had  brought  tears  from  those 
wrinkled  lids. 


PENDENNIS.  557 

The  sound  of  his  breaking  voice  stayed  Pen's  anger  instantly,  and 
he  stopped  pacing  the  room,  as  he  had  been  doing  until  that  moment. 
Laura  was  by  Helen's  sofa;  and  Warrington  had  remained  hitherto 
an  almost  silent  but  not  uninterested  spectator  of  the  family  storm. 
As  the  parties  were  talking,  it  had  grown  almost  dark !  and  after  the 
lull  which  succeeded  the  passionate  outbreak  of  the  Major,  George's 
deep  voice,  as  it  here  broke  trembling  into  the  twilight  room,  was 
heard  with  no  small  emotion  by  all. 

"  Will  you  let  me  tell  you  something  about  myself,  my  kind 
friends  ? "  he  said, — "  you  have  been  so  good  to  me,  ma'am — you  have 
been  so  kind  to  me,  Laura — I  hope  I  may  call  you  so  sometimes — my 
dear  Pen  and  I  have  been  such  friends  that — that  I  have  long  wanted 
to  tell  you  my  story  such  as  it  is,  and  would  have  told  it  to  you  earlier 
but  that  it  is  a  sad  one  and  contains  another's  secret.  However,  it 
may  do  good  for  Arthur  to  know  it — it  is  right  that  every  one  here 
should.  It  will  divert  you  from  thinking  about  a  subject  which,  out  of 
a  fatal  misconception,  has  caused  a  great  deal  of  pain  to  all  of  you. 
May  I  please  tell  you,  Mrs.  Pendennis  ?  " 

"  Pray  speak,"  was  all  Helen  said;  and  indeed  she  was  not  much 
heeding  ;  her  mind  was  full  of  another  idea  with  which  Pen's  words 
had  supplied  her,  and  she  was  in  a  terror  of  hope  that  Avhat  he  had 
hinted  might  be  as  she  wished. 

George  filled  himself  a  bumper  of  wine  and  emptied  it,  and  began 
to  speak.  "  You  all  of  you  know  how  you  see  me,"  he  said, — "  a 
man  without  a  desire  to  make  an  advance  in  the  world :  careless 
about  reputation :  and  living  in  a  garret  and  from  hand  to  mouth, 
though  I  have  friends  and  a  name,  and  I  dare  say  capabilities  of  my 
own,  that  would  serve  me  if  I  had  a  mind.  But  mind  I  have  none.  I 
shall  die  in  that  garret  most  likely,  and  alone.  I  nailed  myself  to  that 
doom  in  early  life.  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  was  that  interested  me 
about  Arthur  years  ago,  and  made  me  inclined  towards  him  when  I 
first  saw  him?  The  men  from  our  college  at  Oxbridge  brought  up 
accounts  of  that  early  aflfair  with  the  Chatteris  actress,  about  whom 
Pen  has  often  talked  to  me  since ;  and  who,  but  for  the  Major's 
generalship,  might  have  been  your  daughter-in-law,  ma'am.  I  can't 
see  Pen  in  the  dark,  but  he  blushes,  I'm  sure;  and  I  dare  say  Miss 
Bell  does ;  and  my  friend  Major  Pendennis,  I  dare  say,  laughs  as  he 
ought  to  do — for  he  won.  What  would  have  been  Arthurs  lot  now 
had  he  been  tied  at  nineteen  to  an  illiterate  woman  older  than  himself, 
with  no  qualities  in  common  between  them,  to  make  one  a  companion 
for  the  other,  no  equality,  no  confidence,  and  no  love  speedily  ?  What 
could  he  have  been  but  most  miserable  ?  And  when  he  spoke  just 
now  and  threatened  a  similar  union,  be  sure  it  was  but  a  threat  occa- 
sioned by  anger,  which  you  must  give  me  leave  to  say,  ma'am,  was 


558  FEXDEiVA'IS. 

very  natural  on  his  part,  for  after  a  generous  and  manly  conduct— let 
me  say  who  know  the  circumstances  well— most  generous  and  manly 
and  self-denying  (which  is  rare  with  him), — he  has  met  from  some 
friends  of  his  with  a  most  unkind  suspicion,  and  has  had  to  complain 
of  the  unfair  treatment  of  another  innocent  person,  towards  whom  he 
and  you  all  are  under  much  obligation."' 

The  widow  was  going  to  get  up  here,  and  Warrington,  seeing  her 
attempt  to  rise,  said,  "  Do  I  tire  you,  ma'am  ? " 

'-  o  no — go  on — go  on,"  said  Helen,  delighted,  and  he  continued. 

"  I  liked  him,  you  see,  because  of  that  early  history-  of  his,  which 
had  come  to  my  ears  in  college  gossip,  and  because  I  like  a  man,  if 
you  wiU  pardon  me  for  saying  so,  Miss  Laura,  who  shows  that  he  can 
have  a  great  unreasonable  attachment  for  a  woman.  That  was  why  we 
became  friends — and  are  all  friends  here — for  always,  aren't  we?"  he 
added,  in  a  lower  voice,  leaning  over  to  her,  "  and  Pen  has  been  a 
great  comfort  and  companion  to  a  lonely  and  unfortunate  man. 

"  I  am  not  complaining  of  my  lot,  you  see ;  for  no  man's  is  what  he 
would  have  it ;  and  up  in  my  garret,  w^here  you  left  the  flowers,  and 
with  my  old  books  and  my  pipe  for  a  wife,  I  am  pretty  contented,  and 
only  occasionally  envy  other  men,  whose  careers  in  life  are  more  bril- 
liant, or  who  can  solace  their  ill  fortune  by  what  Fate  and  my  own 
fault  has  deprived  me  of— the  affection  of  a  woman  or  a  child."  Here 
there  came  a  sigh  from  somewhere  near  Warrington  in  the  dark,  and 
a  hand  was  held  out  in  his  direction,  which,  however,  was  instantly 
withdrawn,  for  the  pruder)'  of  our  females  is  such,  that  before  all  ex- 
pression of  feeling,  or  natural  kindness  and  regard,  a  woman  is  taught 
to  think  of  herself  and  the  proprieties,  and  to  be  ready  to  blush  at  the 
very  slightest  notice ;  and  checking,  as,  of  course,  it  ought,  this  spon- 
taneous motion,  modesty  drew  up  again,  kindly  friendship  shrank  back 
ashamed  of  itself,  and  Warrington  resumed  his  history.  '•'  My  fate  is 
such  as  I  made  it,  and  not  luckj'  for  me  or  for  others  involved  in  it. 

"  I,  too,  had  an  adventure  before  I  went  to  college;  and  there  was 
no  one  to  save  me  as  Major  Pendennis  saved  Pen.  Pardon  me,  Miss 
Laura,  if  I  teU  this  story  before  you.  It  is  as  well  that  you  all  of  you 
should  hear  my  confession.  Before  I  went  to  college,  as  a  boy  of 
eighteen,  I  was  at  a  private  tutor's,  and  there,  like  Arthur,  I  became 
attached,  or  fancied  I  was  attached,  to  a  woman  of  a  much  lower 
degree  and  a  greater  age  than  my  own.     You  shrink  from  me — " 

'■  No,  I  don't,"  Laura  said,  and  here  the  hand  went  out  resolutely, 
and  laid  itself  in  Warrington's.  She  had  divined  his  storj-  from  some 
previous  hints  let  fall  by  him,  and  his  first  w-ords  at  its  commencement. 
"  She  was  a  yeoman's  daughter  in  the  neighbo«-hood,"  Warrington 
said,  with  rather  a  faltering  voice,  "  and  I  fancied — what  all  young  men 
fancy.     Her  parents  knew  who  my  father  was,  and  encouraged  me, 


PENDENNIS.  559 

wl'iA  all  sorts  of  coarse  artifices  and  scoundrel  flatteries,  which  I  see 
now,  about  their  house.  To  do  her  justice,  I  own  she  never  cared  for 
me,  but  was  forced  into  what  happened  by  the  threats  and  compulsion 
of  her  family.  Would  to  God  that  I  had  not  been  deceived :  but  in 
these  matters  we  are  deceived  because  we  wish  to  be  so,  and  I  thought 
I  loved  that  poor  woman. 

"  What  could  come  of  such  a  marriage  1  I  found,  before  long,  that 
I  was  married  to  a  boor.  She  could  not  comprehend  one  subject  that 
interested  me.  Her  dullness  palled  upon  me  till  I  grew  to  loathe  it. 
And  after  some  time  of  a  wretched,  furtive  union — I  must  tell  you  all — 
I  found  letters  somewhere  (and  such  letters  they  were !)  which  showed 
me  that  her  heart,  such  as  it  was,  had  never  been  mine,  but  had  always 
belonged  to  a  person  of  her  own  degree. 

"  At  my  father's  death,  I  paid  what  debts  I  had  contracted  at 
college,  and  settled  every  shilling  which  remained  to  me  in  an  annuity 
upon — upon  those  who  bore  my  name,  on  condition  that  they  should 
hide  themselves  away,  and  not  assume  it.  They  have  kept  that  con- 
dition, as  they  would  break  it,  for  more  money.  If  I  had  earned  fame 
or  reputation,  that  woman  would  have  come  to  claim  it :  if  I  had  made 
a  name  for  myself,  those  who  had  no  right  to  it  would  have  borne  it ; 
and  I  entered  life  at  twenty,  God  help  me — hopeless  and  ruined  beyond 
remission.  I  was  the  boyish  victim  of  vulgar  cheats,  and,  perhaps, 
it  is  only  of  late  I  have  found  out  how  hard — ah,  how  hard — it  is  to 
forgive  them.  I  told  you  the  moral  before,  Pen ;  and  now  I  have  told 
you  the  fable.  Beware  how  you  marry  out  of  your  degree.  I  was  made 
for  a  better  lot  than  this,  I  think :  but  God  has  awarded  me  this  one— 
and  so,  you  see,  it  is  for  me  to  look  on,  and  see  others  successful  and 
others  happy,  with  a  heart  that  shall  be  as  little  bitter  as  possible." 

"  By  Gad,  sir,"  cried  the  Major,  in  high  good-humour,  "  I  intended 
you  to  marry  Miss  Laura  here." 

"  And,  by  Gad,  Master  Shallow,  I  owe  you  a  thousand  pound," 
Warrington  said. 

"  How  d'ye  mean  a  thousand?  it  was  only  a  pony,  sir,"  replied  the 
Major  simply,  at  which  the  other  laughed. 

As  for  Helen,  she  was  so  delighted,  that  she  started  up,  and  said, 
"God  bless  you — God  for  ever  bless  you,  Mr.  Warrington;"  and 
kissed  both  his  hands,  and  ran  up  to  Pen,  and  fell  into  his  arms. 

"  Yes,  dearest  mother,"  he  said  as  he  held  her  to  him,  and  with  a 
noble  tenderness  and  emotion,  embraced  and  forgave  her.  "  I  am 
innocent,  and  my  dear,  dear  mother  has  done  me  a  wrong." 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  child,  I  have  wronged  you,  thank  God,  I  have 
wronged  you ! "  Helen  whispered.  "  Come  away,  Arthur — ^not  here — 
I  want  to  ask  my  child  to  forgive  me — and — and  my  God,  to  forgive 
me;  and  to  bless  you,  and  love  you,  my  son." 


56o  PENDENNJS. 

He  led  her,  tottering,  into  her  room,  and  closed  the  door,  as  the 
three  touched  spectators  of  the  reconciliation  looked  on  in  pleased 
silence.  Ever  after,  ever  after,  the  tender  accents  of  that  voice 
faltering  sweetly  at  his  ear — the  look  of  the  sacred  eyes  beaming  with 
an  affection  unutterable — the  quiver  of  the  fond  lips  smiling  mourn- 
fully— were  remembered  by  the  young  man.  And  at  his  best  moments, 
and  at  his  hours  of  trial  and  grief,  and  at  his  times  of  success  or  well- 
doing, the  mother's  face  looked  down  upon  him,  and  blessed  him  with 
its  gaae  of  pity  and  purity,  as  he  saw  it  in  that  night  when  she  yet 
lingered  with  him ;  and  when  she  seemed,  ere  she  quite  left  him,  an 
angel,  transfigured  and  glorified  with  love — for  which  love,  as  for  the 
greatest  of  the  bounties  and  wonders  of  God's  provision  for  us,  let  us 
kneel  and  thank  Our  Father. 

The  moon  had  risen' by  this  time;  Arthur  recollected  well  after- 
wards how  it  lighted  up  his  mother's  sweet  pale  face.  Their  talk,  or 
his  rather,  for  she  scarcely  could  speak,  was  more  tender  and  con- 
fidential than  it  had  been  for  years  before.  He  was  the  frank  and 
generous  boy  of  her  early  days  and  love.  He  told  her  the  stor>',  the 
mistake  regarding  which  had  caused  her  so  much  pain — his  struggles 
to  fly  from  temptation,  and  his  thankfulness  that  he  had  been  able  to 
overcome  it.  He  never  would  do  the  girl  wrong,  never;  or  wound 
his  own  honour  or  his  mother's  pure  heart.  The  threat  that  he  would 
return  was  uttered  in  a  moment  of  exasperation,  of  which  he  repented. 
He  never  would  see  her  again.  But  his  mother  said,  Yes,  he  should ; 
and  it  was  she  who  had  been  proud  and  culpable — and  she  would  like 
to  give  Fanny  Bolton  something — and  she  begged  her  dear  boy's 
pardon  for  opening  the  letter — and  she  would  wTite  to  the  young  girl, 
if, — if  she  had  time.  Poor  thing !  was  it  not  natural  that  she  shculd 
love  her  Arthur  ?     And  again  she  kissed  him,  and  she  blessed  him. 

As  they  were  talking  the  clock  struck  nine,  and  Helen  reminded 
him  how,  when  he  was  a  little  boy,  she  used  to  go  up  to  his  bed-room 
at  that  hour,  and  hear  him  say  Our  Father.  And  once  more,  oh,  once 
more,  the  young  man  fell  down  at  his  mothers  sacred  knees,  and 
sobbed  out  the  prayer  which  the  Divine  Tenderness  uttered  for  us, 
and  which  has  been  echoed  for  twenty  ages  since  by  millions  of  sinful 
and  humbled  men.  And  as  he  spoke  the  last  words  of  the  supphca- 
tion,  the  mother's  head  feU  down  on  her  boy's,  and  her  arms  closed 
round  him,  and  together  they  repeated  the  words  "  for  ever  and  ever," 
and  "  Amen." 

A  little  time  after,  it  might  have  been  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Laura 
heard  Arthur's  voice  calling  from  within,  "Laura!  Laura!"  She 
rushed  into  the  room  instantly,  and  found  the  young  man  still  on  his 
knees,  and  holding  his  mother's  hand.  Helen's  head  had  sunk  back 
and  was  quite  pale  in  the  moon.     Pen  looked  round,  scared  with  a 


PENDENNIS.  561 

ghastly  terror.      "Help!    Laura,   help!"   he   said,   "she's    fainted — 

she's " 

Laura  screamed,  and  fell  by  the  side  of  Helen.  The  shriek 
brought  Warrington  and  Major  Pendennis  and  the  servants  to  the 
room.  The  sainted  woman  was  dead.  The  last  emotion  of  her  soul 
here  was  joy,  to  be  henceforth  unchequered  and  eternal.  The  tender 
heart  beat  no  more ;  it  was  to  have  no  more  pangs,  no  more  doubts, 
no  more  griefs  and  trials.  Its  last  throb  was  love ;  and  Helen's  last 
breath  was  a  benediction. 

The  melancholy  party  bent  their  way  speedily  homewards,  and 
Helen  was  laid  by  her  husband's  side  at  Clavering,  in  the  old  church 
where  she  had  prayed  so  often.  For  awhile  Laura  went  to  stay  with 
Dr.  Portman,  who  read  the  service  over  his  dear  sister  departed, 
amidst  his  own  sobs,  and  those  of  the  little  congregation  which 
assembled  round  Helen's  tomb.  There  were  not  many  who  cared 
for  her,  or  who  spoke  of  her  when  gone.  Scarcely  more  than  of  a 
nun  in  a  cloister  did  people  know  of  that  pious  and  gentle  lady. 
A  few  words  among  the  cottagers  whom  her  bounty  was  accustomed 
to  relieve,  a  little  talk  from  house  to  house  at  Clavering,  where  this 
lady  told  how  their  neighbour  died  of  a  complaint  of  the  heart; 
whilst  that  speculated  upon  the  amount  of  property  which  the  widow 
had  left ;  and  a  third  wondered  whether  Arthur  would  let  Fairoaks  or 
li\'e  in  it,  and  expected  that  he  would  not  be  long  getting  through  his 
property, — this  was  all,  and  except  with  one  or  two  who  cherished 
her,  the  kind  soul  was  forgotten  by  the  next  market-day.  Would  you 
desire  that  grief  for  you  should  last  for  a  few  moi'e  weeks  .^  and  does 
after-life  seem  less  solitary,  provided  that  our  manes,  when  we  "  go 
down  into  silence,"  are  echoing  on  this  side  of  the  grave  yet  for  a 
little  while,  and  human  voices  are  still  talking  about  us  ?  She  was 
gone,  the  pure  soul,  whom  only  two  or  three  loved  and  knew.  The 
great  blank  she  left  was  in  Laura's  heart,  to  whom  her  love  had  been 
everything,  and  who  had  now  but  to  worship  her  memory.  "  I  am 
glad  that  she  gave  me  her  blessing  before  she  went  away,"  Warrington 
said  to  Pen ;  and  as  for  Arthur,  with  a  humble  acknowledgment  and 
wonder  at  so  much  affection,  he  hardly  dared  to  ask  of  Heaven  to 
make  him  worthy  of  it,  though  he  felt  that  a  saint  there  was  inter- 
ceding for  him. 

All  the  lady's  affairs  were  found  in  perfect  order,  and  her  little 
property  ready  for  transmission  to  her  son,  in  trust  for  whom  she 
held  it.  Papers  in  her  desk  showed  that  she  had  long  been  aware  of 
the  complaint,  one  of  the  heart,  under  which  she  laboured,  and  knew 
that  it  would  suddenly  remove  her :  and  a  prayer  was  found  in  her  hand- 
writing, asking  that  her  end  might  be,  as  it  was,  in  the  arms  of  her  son. 

36 


562  PENDENNIS. 

Laura  and  Arthur  talked  over  her  sayings,  all  of  which  the  former 
most  fondly  remembered,  to  the  young  man's  shame  somewhat,  who 
thought  how  much  greater  her  love  had  been  for  Helen  than  his  own. 
He  referred  himself  entirely  to  Laura  to  know  what  Helen  would 
have  wished  should  be  done ;  what  poor  persons  she  would  have  liked 
to  relieve ;  what  legacies  or  remembrances  she  would  have  wished  to 
transmit.  They  packed  up  the  vase  which  Helen  in  her  gratitude 
had  destined  to  Dr.  Goodenough,  and  duly  sent  it  to  the  kind  Doctor; 
a  silver  coffee-pot,  which  she  used,  was  sent  off  to  Dr.  Portman ;  a 
diamond  ring,  with  her  hair,  was  given  with  affectionate  greeting  to 
Warrington. 

It  must  have  been  a  hard  day  for  poor  Laura  when  she  went  over 
to  Fairoaks  first,  and  to  the  little  room  which  she  had  occupied,  and 
which  was  hers  no  more,  and  to  the  widow's  own  blank  chamber  in 
which  those  two  had  passed  so  many  beloved  hours.  There,  of  course, 
were  the  clothes  in  the  wardrobe,  the  cushion  on  which  she  prayed, 
the  chair  at  the  toilette :  the  glass  that  was  no  more  to  reflect  her 
dear  sad  face.  After  she  had  been  here  awhile,  Pen  knocked  and  led 
her  downstairs  to  the  parlour  again,  and  made  her  drink  a  little  wine, 
and  said,  "  God  bless  you,"  as  she  touched  the  glass.  "  Nothing  shall 
ever  be  changed  in  your  room,'^  he  said — "  it  is  always  your  room — 
it  is  always  my  sister's  room.  Shall  it  not  be  so,  Laura  ?  "  and  Laura 
said,  "Yes!" 

Among  the  widow's  papers  was  found  a  packet,  marked  by  the 
widow  "  Letters  from  Laura's  father,"  and  which  Arthur  gave  to  her. 
They  were  the  letters  which  had  passed  between  the  cousins  in  the 
early  days  before  the  marriage  of  either  of  them.  The  ink  was  faded  in 
which  they  were  written :  the  tears  dried  out  that  both  perhaps  had  shed 
over  them :  the  grief  healed  now  whose  bitterness  they  chronicled ; 
the  friends  doubtless  united  whose  parting  on  earth  had  caused  to 
both  pangs  so  cruel.  And  Laura  learned  fully  now  for  the  first  time 
what  the  tie  was  which  had  bound  her  so  tenderly  to  Helen :  how 
faithfully  her  more  than  mother  had  cherished  her  fathers  memorj-, 
how  truly  she  had  loved  him,  how  meekly  resigned  him. 

One  legacy  of  his  mother's  Pen  remembered,  of  which  Laura 
could  have  no  cognizance.  It  was  that  wish  of  Helen's  to  make  some 
present  to  Fanny  Bolton ;  and  Pen  wrote  to  her,  putting  his  letter 
under  an  envelope  to  Mr.  Bows,  and  requesting  that  gentleman  to 
read  it  before  he  delivered  it  to  Fanny.  "  Dear  Fanny,"  Pen  said,  "  I 
have  to  acknowledge  two  letters  from  you,  one  of  which  was  delayed 
in  my  illness  "  (Pen  found  the  first  letter  in  his  mother's  desk  after  her 
decease,  and  the  reading  it  gave  him  a  strange  pang),  "  and  to  thank 
you,  my  kind  nurse  and  friend,  who  watched  me  so  tenderly  during 
my  fever.     And  I  have  to  tell  you  that  the  last  'words  of  my  dear 


PENDENNIS.  563 

mother,  who  is  no  more,  were  words  of  good-will  and  gratitude  to  you 
for  nursing  me :  and  she  said  she  would  have  written  to  you,  had  she  - 
had  time — that  she  would  like  to  ask  your  pardon  if  she  had  harshly 
treated  you — and  that  she  would  beg  you  to  show  your  forgiveness  by 
accepting  some  token  of  friendship  and  regard  from  her."  Pen  con- 
cluded by  saying  that  his  friend,  George  Warrington,  Esq.,  of  Lamb 
Court,  Temple,  was  trustee  of  a  little  sum  of  money,  of  wliich  the 
interest  would  be  paid  to  her  until  she  became  of  age,  or  changed  her 
name,  which  would  always  be  affectionately  remembered  by  her 
grateful  friend,  A.  Pendennis.  The  sum  was  in  truth  but  small, 
although  enough  to  make  a  little  heiress  of  Fanny  Bolton;  whose 
parents  were  appeased,  and  whose  father  said  Mr.  P.  had  acted  quite 
as  the  gentleman — though  Bows  growled  out  that  to  plaster  a  wounded 
heart  with  a  bank-note  was  an  easy  kind  of  sympathy ;  and  poor  Fanny 
felt  only  too  clearly  that  Pen's  letter  was  one  of  farewell. 

"  Sending  hundred-pound  notes  to  porters'  daughters  is  all  dev'lish 
well,"  old  Major  Pendennis  said  to  his  nephew  (whom,  as  the  pro- 
prietor of  Fairoaks  and  the  head  of  the  family,  he  now  treated  with 
marked  deference  and  civility),  "  and  as  there  was  a  little  ready  money 
at  the  bank,  and  your  poor  mother  wished  it,  there's  perhaps  no  harm 
done.  But,  my  good  lad,  I'd  have  you  to  remember  that  you've  not 
above  five  hundred  a  year,  though,  thanks  to  me,  the  world  gives  you 
credit  for  being  a  doosid  deal  better  off;  and,  on  my  knees,  I  beg 
you,  my  boy,  don't  break  into  your  capital.  Stick  to  it,  sir;  don't 
speculate  with  it,  sir;  keep  your  land,  and  don't  borrow  on  it.  Tatham 
tells  me  that  the  Chatteris  branch  of  the  railway  may — will  almost 
certainly  pass  through  Chatteris,  and  if  it  can  be  brought  on  this  side 
of  the  Brawl,  sir,  and  through  your  fields,  they'll  be  worth  a  dev'lish 
deal  of  money,  and  your  five  hundred  a  year  will  jump  up  to  eight  or 
nine.  Whatever  it  is,  keep  it,  I  implore  you  keep  it.  And  I  say.  Pen, 
I  think  you  should  give  up  living  in  those  dirty  chambers  in  the 
Temple,  and  get  a  decent  lodging.  And  I  should  have  a  man,  sir,  to 
wait  upon  me;  and  ahorse  or  two  in  town  in  the  season.  All  this 
will  pretty  well  swallow  up  your  income,  and  I  know  you  must  live 
close.  But  remember  you  have  a  certain  place  in  society,  and  you 
can't  afford  to  cut  a  poor  figure  in  the  world.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  in  the  winter  ?  You  don't  intend  to  stay  down  here,  or,  I  suppose, 
to  go  on  writing  for  that — what-d'ye-call'em — that  newspaper  ? " 

"  Warrington  and  I  are  going  abroad  again,  sir,  for  a  little,  and 
then  we  shall  see  what  is  to  be  done,"  Arthur  replied. 

"  And  you'll  let  Fairoaks,  of  course.  Good  school  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood ;  cheap  country :  dev'lish  nice  place  for  East  India  colonels, 
or  families  wanting  to  retire.  I'll  speak  about  it  at  the  club ;  there 
are  lots  of  fellows  at  the  club  want  a  place  of  that  sort." 


564  PENDENNIS. 

"  I  hope  Laura  will  live  in  it  for  the  winter,  at  least,  and  will  make 
it  her  home,"  Arthur  replied :  at  which  the  Major  pish'd  and  psha'd, 
and  said  that  there  ought  to  be  convents,  begad,  for  English  ladies, 
and  wished  that  Miss  Bell  had  not  been  there  to  interfere  with  the 
arrangements  of  the  family,  and  that  she  would  mope  herself  to  death 
alone  in  that  place. 

Indeed,  it  would  have  been  a  very  dismal  abode  for  poor  Laura, 
who  was  not  too  happy  either  in  Doctor  Portman's  household,  and  in 
the  town,  where  too  many  things  reminded  her  of  the  dear  parent 
whom  she  had  lost.  But  old  Lady  Rockminster,  who  adored  her 
young  friend  Laura,  as  soon  as  she  read  in  the  paper  of  her  loss,  and 
of  her  presence  in  the  country,  rushed  over  from  Baymouth,  where 
the  old  lady  was  staying,  and  insisted  that  Laura  should  remain  six 
months,  twelve  months,  all  her  life  with  her;  and  to  her  ladyship's 
house,  Martha  from  Fairoaks,  as  feinine  de  chambre,  accompanied  her 
young  mistress. 

Pen  and  Warrington  saw  her  depart.  It  was  difficult  to  say  which 
of  the  young  men  seemed  to  regard  her  the  most  tenderly.  ''  Your 
cousin  is  pert  and  rather  v^ulgar,  my  dear,  but  he  seems  to  have  a 
good  heart,"  little  Lady  Rockminster  said,  who  said  her  say  about 
everybody — "  but  I  like  Bluebeard  best.  Tell  me,  is  he  touclie  au 
cacvrf" 

"  Mr.  Warrington  has  been  long — engaged,"  Laura  said,  dropping 
her  eyes. 

"  Nonsense,  child !  And  good  heavens,  my  dear !  that's  a  pretty 
diamond  cross.     What  do  you  mean  by  wearing  it  in  the  morning  ? " 

''Arthur — my  brother,  gave  it  me  just  now.  It  was — it  was — " 
She  could  not  finish  the  sentence.  The  carriage  passed  over  the 
bridge,  and  by  the  dear,  dear  gate  of  Fairoaks — home  no  more. 


II 


PENDENNIS.  565 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

OLD   FRIENDS. 

IT  chanced  at  that  great  English  festival,  at  which  all  London  takes 
a  holiday  upon  Epsom  Downs,  that  a  great  number  of  the  per- 
sonages to  whom  we  have  been  introduced  in  the  course  of  this 
history,  were  assembled  to  see  the  Derby.  In  a  comfortable  open 
carriage,  which  had  been  brought  to  the  ground  by  a  pair  of  horses, 
might  be  seen  Mrs.  Bungay,  of  Paternoster  Row,  attired  like  Solomon 
in  all  his  glory,  and  having  by  her  side  modest  Mrs.  Shandon,  for 
whom,  since  the  commencement  of  their  acquaintance,  the  v/orthy 
publishers  lady  had  maintained  a  steady  friendship.  Bungay,  having 
recreated  himself  with  a  copious  luncheon,  was  madly  shying  at  the 
sticks  hard  by,  till  the  perspiration  ran  off  his  bald  pate.  Shandon 
was  shambling  about  among  the  drinking-tents  and  gipsies  :  Finucane 
constant  in  attendance  on  the  two  ladies,  to  whom  gentlemen  of  their 
acquaintance,  and  connected  with  the  publishing  house,  came  r.p  to 
pay  a  visit. 

Among  others,  Mr.  Archer  came  up  to  make  her  his  bov/,  and 
told  Mrs.  Bungay  who  was  on  the  course.  Yonder  was  the  Prime 
Minister:  his  lordship  had  just  told  him  to  back  Borax  for  the  race; 
but  Archer  thought  Muffineer  the  better  horse.  He  pointed  out 
countless  dukes  and  grandees  to  the  delighted  Mrs.  Bungay.  "  Look 
yonder  in  the  Grand  Stand,"  he  said.  "  There  sits  the  Chinese 
Ambassador  with  the  Mandarins  of  his  suite.  Fou-choo-foo  brought 
me  over  letters  of  introduction  from  the  Governor-General  of  India, 
my  most  intimate  friend,  and  I  was  for  some  time  very  kind  to  him, 
and  he  had  his  chopsticks  laid  for  him  at  my  table  whenever  he  chose 
to  come  and  dine.  But  he  brought  his  own  cook  with  him,  and — 
would  you  believe  it,  Mrs.  Bungay  ? — one  day,  when  I  was  out,  and  the 
Ambassador  was  with  Mrs.  Archer  in  our  garden  eating  gooseberries^ 
of  which  the  Chinese  are  passionately  fond,  the  beast  of  a  cook,  seeinj 
my  wife's  dear  little  Blenheim  spaniel,  (that  we  had  from  the  Duke  01 
Marlborough  himself,  whose  ancestor's  life  Mrs,  Archers  great-great- 
grandfather saved  at  the  battle  of  Malplaquet,)  seized  upon  the  poor 
little  devil,  cut  his  throat,  and  skinned  him,  and  served  him  up  stuffed 
with  forced-meat  in  the  second  course." 


566  PENDENNIS. 

"  Law ! "  said  Mrs.  Bungay. 

"  You  may  fancy  my  wife's  agony  when  she  knew  v  hat  had  hap- 
pened !  The  cook  came  screaming  upstairs,  and  told  us  that  she  had 
found  poor  Fido's  skin  in  the  area,  just  after  we  had  all  of  us  tasted  of 
the  dish !  She  never  would  speak  to  the  Ambassador  again — never ; 
and,  upon  my  word,  he  has  never  been  to  dine  wath  us  since.  The 
Lord  Mayor,  who  did  me  the  honour  to  dine,  liked  the  dish  very  much ; 
and,  eaten  with  green  peas,  it  tastes  rather  like  duck." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  now !  "  cried  the  astonished  publisher's  lady. 

"  Fact,  upon  my  word.  Look  at  that  lady  in  blue,  seated  by  the 
Ambassador:  that  is  Lady  Flamingo,  and  they  say  she  is  going  to  be 
married  to  him,  and  return  to  Pekin  with  his  Excellency.  She  is 
getting  her  feet  squeezed  down  on  purpose.  But  she'll  only  cripple 
herself,  and  Avill  never  be  able  to  do  it — never.  My  wife  has  the 
smallest  foot  in  England,  and  wears  shoes  for  a  six-years-old  child ; 
but  what  is  that  to  a  Chinese  lady  s  foot,  Mrs.  Bungay  ? '" 

"Who  is  that  carriage  as  Mr.  Pendennis  is  with,  Mr.  Archer?" 
Mrs.  Bungay  presently  asked.  "  He  and  Mr.  Warrington  was  here 
jest  now.  He's  'aughty  in  his  manners,  that  Mr.  Pendennis,  and  well 
he  may  be,  for  I'm  told  he  keeps  tip-top  company.  'As  he  'ad  a  large 
fortune  left  him,  Mr.  Archer?     He's  in  black  still,  I  see." 

"  Eighteen  hundred  a  year  in  land,  and  twenty-two  thousand  five 
hundred  in  the  Three-and-a-half-per-Cents. ;  that's  about  it,"  said 
Mr.  Archer. 

"  Law !  why  you  know  everything,  Mr.  A.  I "  cried  the  lady  of 
Paternoster  Row. 

"  I  happen  to  know,  because  I  was  called  in  about  poor  Mrs.  Pen- 
dennis's  will,"  Mr.  Archer  replied.  "  Pendennis's  uncle,  the  Major, 
seldom  does  anything  without  me ;  and  as  he  is  likely  to  be  extrava- 
gant, we've  tied  up  the  property,  so  that  he  can't  make  ducks-and- 
drakes  with  it. — How  do  you  do,  my  lord? — Do  you  know  that 
gentleman,  ladies  ?  You  have  read  his  speeches  in  the  House;  it  is 
Lord  Rochester." 

"  Lord  Fiddlestick,"  cried  out  Finucane,  from  the  box.  '•  Sure  if  s 
Tom  Staples,  of  the  '  Morning  Advertiser,'  Archer." 

"  Is  it?"  Archer  said,  simply.  "  Well,  I'm  ver>'  short-sighted,  and 
upon  my  word  I  thought  it  was  Rochester.  That  gentleman  with  the 
double  opera-glass  (another  nod)  is  Lord  John ;  and  the  tall  man  with 
him,  don't  you  know  him  ?  is  Sir  James." 

"You  know  'em  because  you  see  "em  in  the  House,"  growled 
Finucane. 

"  I  know  them  because  they  are  kind  enough  to  allow  me  to  call 
them  my  most  intimate  friends,"  Archer  continued.  '•  Look  at  the 
Duke  of  Hampshire ;  what  a  pattern  of  a  fine  old  English  gentleman ! 


PENDENNIS.  567 

He  never  misses  '  the  Derby.'  '  Archer,'  he  said  to  me  only  yesterday, 
'  I  have  been  at  sixty-five  Derbies !  appeared  on  the  field  for  the  first 
time  on  a  piebald  pony  when  I  was  seven  years  old,  with  my  father, 
the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  Colonel  Hanger;  and  only  missing  two  races, 
— one  when  I  had  the  measles  at  Eton,  and  one  in  the  Waterloo  year, 
when  I  was  with  my  friend  Wellington  in  Flanders.'  '•' 

"  And  who  is  that  yellow  carriage,  with  the  pink  and  yellow  para- 
sols, that  Mr.  Pendennis  is  talking  to,  and  ever  so  many  gentlemen  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Bungay. 

"  That  is  Lady  Clavering,  of  Clavering  Park,  next  estate  to  my 
friend  Pendennis.  That  is  the  young  son  and  heir  upon  the  box; 
he's  a\vfully  tipsy,  the  little  scamp;  and  the  young  lady  is  Miss 
Amor}',  Lady  Clavering's  daughter  by  a  first  marriage,  and  un- 
commonly sweet  upon  my  friend  Pendennis ;  but  I've  reason  to 
think  he  has  his  heart  fixed  elsewhere.  You  have  heard  of  young 
Mr.  Foker — the  great  brewer,  Foker,  you  know— he  was  going  to 
hang  himself  in  consequence  of  a  fatal  passion  for  Miss  Amory,  who 
refused  him,  but  was  cut  down  just  in  time  by  his  valet,  and  is  now 
abroad,  under  a  keeper." 

"  How  happy  that  young  fellow  is  !  "  sighed  Mrs.  Bungay.  "  Who'd 
have  thought  when  he  came  so  quiet  and  demure  to  dine  with  us,  three 
or  four  years  ago,  he  would  turn  out  such  a  grand  character !  Why,  I 
saw  his  name  at  Court  the  other  day,  and  presented  by  the  Marquis  of 
Steyne  and  all;  and  in  every  party  of  the  nobility  his  name's  down  as 
sure  as  a  gun." 

"  I  introduced  him  a  good  deal  when  he  first  came  up  to  town," 
Ivlr.  Archer  said,  "  and  his  uncle,  Major  Pendennis,  did  the  rest. 
Hallo !  There's  Cobden  here,  of  all  men  in  the  world !  I  must 
go  and  speak  to  him.  Good-by,  Mrs.  Bungay.  Good  morning, 
Mrs.  Shandon." 

An  hour  previous  to  this  time,  and  at  a  different  part  of  the  course, 
there  might  have  been  seen  an  old  stage-coach,  on  the  battered  roof 
of  which  a  crowd  of  shabby  raffs  were  stamping  and  hallooing,  as  the 
great  event  of  the  day — the  Derby  race — rushed  over  the  greensward, 
and  by  the  shouting  millions  of  people  assembled  to  view  that  mag- 
nificent scene.  This  was  Wheeler^s  (the  "  Harlequin's  Head")  drag, 
which  had  brought  down  a  company  of  choice  spirits  from  Bow  Street, 
with  a  slap-up  luncheon  in  the  "  boot."  As  the  whirling  race  flashed 
by,  each  of  the  choice  spirits  bellowed  out  the  name  of  the  horse  or 
the  colours  which  he  thought  or  he  hoped  might  be  foremost.  "  The 
Cornet ! "  "  It's  Muffineer ! "  "  It's  blue  sleeves  ! "  "  Yallow  cap  !  yallow 
cap !  yallow  cap ! "  and  so  forth,  yelled  the  gentlemen  sportsmen, 
during  that  delicious  and  thrilling  minute  before  the  contest  was 
decided;  and  as  the  fluttering  signal  blew  out,  showing  the  number 


568  PENDENNIS. 

of  the  famous  horse  Podasokus  as  winner  of  the  race,  one  of  the 
gentlemen  on  the  "  Harlequin's  Head"  drag  sprang  up  off  the  roof,  as 
if  he  was  a  pigeon  and  about  to  fly  away  to  London  or  York  with  the 
news. 

But  his  elation  did  not  lift  him  many  inches  from  his  standing- 
place,  to  which  he  came  down  again  on  the  instant,  causing  the  boards 
of  the  crazy  old  coach-roof  to  crack  with  the  weight  of  his  joy. 
"  Hurray,  hurray  ! '"'  he  bawled  out.  "  Podasokus  is  the  horse.  Supper 
for  ten,  Wheeler,  my  boy.  Ask  you  all  round  of  course,  and  damn  the 
expense." 

And  the  gentlemen  on  the  carriage,  the  shabby  swaggerers,  the 
dubious  bucks,  said,  "  Thank  you — congratulate  you.  Colonel ;  sup 
with  you  with  pleasure: "'  and  whispered  to  one  another,  "  The  Colonel 
stands  to  \\\n  fifteen  hundred,  and  he  got  the  odds  from  a  good 
man,  too." 

And  each  of  the  shabby  bucks  and  dusky  dandies  began  to  eye  his 
neighbour  with  suspicion,  lest  that  neighbour,  taking  his  advantage, 
should  get  the  Colonel  into  a  lonely  place,  and  borrow  money  of  him. 
And  the  winner  on  Podasokus  could  not  be  alone  during  the  whole  of 
that  afternoon,  so  closely  did  his  friends  watch  him  and  each  other. 

At  another  part  of  the  course  you  might  have  seen  a  vehicle,  cer- 
tainly more  modest,  if  not  more  shabby  than  that  battered  coach 
which  had  brought  down  the  choice  spirits  from  the  "  Harlequin's 
Head;"  this  was  cab  No.  2002,  which  had  conveyed  a  gentleman  and 
two  ladies  from  the  cab-stand  in  the  Strand :  whereof  one  of  the 
ladies,  as  she  sate  on  the  box  of  the  cab  enjoying  with  her  mamma 
and  their  companion  a  repast  of  lobster-salad  and  bitter  ale,  looked  so 
fresh  and  pretty  that  many  of  the  splendid  young  dandies  who  were 
strolling  about  the  course,  and  enjoying  themselves  at  the  noble 
diversion  of  Sticks,  and  talking  to  the  beautifully  dressed  ladies  in 
the  beautiful  carriages  on  the  hill,  forsook  these  fascinations  to  have  a 
glance  at  the  smiling  and  rosy-cheeked  lass  on  the  cab.  The  blushes 
of  youth  and  good-humour  mantled  on  the  girl's  cheeks,  and  played 
over  that  fair  countenance  like  the  pretty  shining  cloudlets  on  the 
serene  sky  overhead;  the  elder  lady^s  cheek  Avas  red  too;  but  that  was 
a  permanent  mottled  rose,  deepening  only  as  it  received  fresh  draughts 
of  pale  ale  and  brandy-and-water,  until  her  face  emulated  the  rich 
shell  of  the  lobster  which  she  devoured. 

The  gentleman  who  escorted  these  two  ladies  was  most  active  in 
attendance  upon  them  :  here  on  the  course,  as  he  had  been  during 
the  previous  journey.  During  the  whole  of  that  animated  and  delightful 
drive  from  London,  his  jokes  had  never  ceased.  He  spoke  up  un- 
dauntedly to  the  most  awful  drags  full  of  the  biggest  and  most  solemn 
guardsmen  ;    as  to  the  humblest   donkey-chaise  in  which   Bob  the 


PENDENNJS.  569 

dustman  was  driving  Molly  to  the  race.  He  had  fired  astonishing 
volleys  of  what  is  called  "  chaff"  into  endless  windows  as  he  passed  ; 
into  lines  of  grinning  girls'  schools  ;  into  little  regiments  of  shouting 
urchins  hurraying  behind  the  railings  of  their  Classical  and  Com- 
mercial Academies  ;  into  casements  whence  smiling  maid-servants, 
and  nurses  tossing  babies,  or  demure  old  maiden  ladies  with  dissenting 
countenances,  were  looking.  And  the  pretty  girl  in  the  straw  bonnet 
with  pink  ribbon,  and  her  mamma,  the  devourer  of  lobsters,  had  both 
agreed  that  when  he  was  in  "  spirits "  there  was  nothing  like  that 
Mr.  Sam.  He  had  crammed  the  cab  with  trophies  won  from  the 
bankrupt  proprietors  of  the  Sticks  hard  by,  and  with  countless  pin- 
cushions, wooden  apples,  'backy-boxes,  jack-in-the-boxes,  and  little 
soldiers.  He  had  brought  up  a  gipsy  with  a  tawny  child  in  her  arms 
to  tell  the  fortunes  of  the  ladies  :  and  the  only  cloud  which  momen- 
tarily obscured  the  sunshine  of  that  happy  party,  was  when  the  teller 
of  fate  informed  the  young  lady  that  she  had  had  reason  to  beware  of 
a  fair  man,  who  was  false  to  her  :  that  she  had  had  a  bad  illness,  and 
that  she  would  find  that  a  dark  man  would  prove  true. 

The  girl  looked  very  much  abashed  at  this  news  :  her  mother  and 
the  young  man  interchanged  signs  of  wonder  and  intelligence.  Per- 
haps the  conjuror  had  used  the  same  words  to  a  hundred  different 
carriages  on  that  day. 

Making  his  way  solitary  amongst  the  crowd  and  the  carriages, 
and  noting,  according  to  his  wont,  the  various  circumstances  and 
characters  which  the  animated  scene  presented,  a  young  friend  of 
ours  came  suddenly  upon  cab  2002,  and  the  little  group  of  persons 
assembled  on  the  outside  of  the  vehicle.  As  he  caught  sight  of  the 
young  lady  on  the  box,  she  started  and  turned  pale  :  her  mother 
became  redder  than  ever  :  the  heretofore  gay  and  triumphant  Mr.  Sam 
immediately  assumed  a  fierce  and  suspicious  look,  and  his  eyes  turned 
savagely  from  Fanny  Bolton  (whom  the  reader,  no  doubt,  has  recog- 
nised in  the  young  lady  of  the  cab)  to  Arthur  Pendennis,  advancing 
to  meet  her. 

Arthur,  too,  looked  dark  and  suspicious  on  perceiving  Mr.  Samuel 
Huxter  in  company  with  his  old  acquaintances  :  but  his  suspicion  was 
that  of  alarmed  morality,  and,  I  dare  say,  highly  creditable  to  Mr. 
Arthur  :  like  the  suspicion  of  Mrs.  Lynx,  when  she  sees  Mr.  Brown 
and  Mrs.  Jones  talking  together,  or  when  she  remarks  Mrs.  Lamb 
twice  or  thrice  in  a  handsome  opera-box.  There  jnay  be  no  harm 
in  the  conversation  of  Mr.  B.  and  Mrs.  J.  :  and  Mrs.  Lamb's  opera-box 
(though  she  notoriously  can't  afford  one)  may  be  honestly  come  by  : 
but  yet  a  moralist  like  Mrs.  Lynx  has  a  right  to  the  little  precautionary 
fright  :  and  Arthur  was  no  doubt  justified  in  adopting  that  severe 
demeanour  of  his. 


57° 


PENDENNIS. 


Fanny's  heart  began  to  patter  violently  :  Hunter's  fists,  plunged 
into  the  pockets  of  his  paletot,  clenched  themselves  involuntarily,  and 
armed  themselves,  as  it  were,  in  ambush  :  Mrs.  Bolton  began  to  talk 
with  all  her  might,  and  with  a  wonderful  volubility  :  and  Lor^  !  she 
was  so  'appy  to  see  Mr.  Pendennis,  and  how  well  he  was  a  lookin',  and 
we'd  been  talkin'  about  Mr.  P.  only  jest  before  ;  hadn't  we,  Fanny .? 
and  if  this  was  the  famous  Hepsom  races  that  they  talked  so  much 
about,  she  didn't  care,  for  her  part,  if  she  never  saw  them  again.  And 
how  was  Major  Pendennis,  and  that  kind  Mr.  Warrington,  who  brought 
Mr.  P.'s  great  kindness  to  Fanny  ;  and  she  never  would  forget  it, 
never  :  and  Mr.  Warrington  was  so  tall,  he  almost  broke  his  'ead  up 
against  their  lodge  door.  You  recollect  Mr.  Warrington  a  knockin' 
of  his  head — don't  you,  Fanny  ? 

Whilst  Mrs.  Bolton  was  so  discoursing,  I  wonder  how  many  thou- 
sands of  thoughts  passed  through  Fanny's  mind,  and  what  dear  times, 
sad  struggles,  lonely  griefs,  and  subsequent  shame-faced  consolations, 
were  recalled  to  her  ?  What  pangs  had  the  poor  little  thing,  as  she 
thought  how  much  she  had  loved  him,  and  that  she  loved  him  no 
more  ?  There  he  stood,  about  whom  she  was  going  to  die  ten  months 
since,  dandified,  supercilious,  with  a  black  crape  to  his  white  hat,  and 
jet  buttons  ip  his  shirt-front  :  and  a  pink  in  his  coat,  that  some  one 
else  had  probably  given  him  :  with  the  tightest  lavender-coloured 
gloves  sevvn  with  black  :  and  the  smallest  of  canes.  And  Mr.  Huxter 
wore  no  gloves,  and  great  Blucher  boots,  and  smelt  very  much  of 
tobacco  certainly ;  and  looked,  oh,  it  must  be  owned,  he  looked  as 
if  a  bucket  of  water  would  do  him  a  great  deal  of  good  !  All  these 
thoughts,  and  a  myriad  of  others,  rushed  through  Fann\-'s  mind  as  her 
mamma  was  delivering  herself  of  her  speech,  and  as  the  girl,  from 
under  her  eyes,  surveyed  Pendennis — sur\'eyed  him  entirely  from  head 
to  foot,  the  circle  on  his  white  forehead  that  his  hat  left  when  he  hfted 
it  (his  beautiful,  beautiful  hair  had  grown  again),  the  trinkets  at  his 
watch-chain,  the  ring  on  his  hand  under  his  glove,  the  neat  shining 
boot,  so,  so  unlike  Sam's  high-low  ! — and  after  her  hand  had  given  a 
little  twittering  pressure  to  the  lavender-coloured  kid  grasp  which  was 
held  out  to  it,  and  after  her  mother  had  delivered  herself  of  her 
speech,  all  Fanny  could  find  to  say  was, — "This  is  Mr.  Samuel 
Huxter,  whom  you  knew  formerly,  I  believe,  sir;  Mr.  Samuel,  you 
know  you  knew  Mr.  Pendennis  formerly — and — and,  will  you  take  a 
little  refreshment?" 

These  little  words,  tremulous  and  uncoloured  as  they  were,  yet 
v,-ere  understood  by  Pendennis  in  such  a  manner  as  to  take  a  great 
load  of  suspicion  from  off  his  mind — of  remorse,  perhaps,  from  his 
heart.  The  frown  on  the  countenance  of  the  prince  of  Fairoaks  dis- 
appeared, and  a  good-natured  smile  and  a  knowing  twinkle  of  the  eyes 


PENDENNIS.  571 

illuminated  his  highness's  countenance.  "  1  am  very  thirsty,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  will  be  glad  to  drink  your  health,  Fanny;  and  I  hope  Mr.  Huxter 
will  pardon  me  for  having  been  very  rude  to  him  the  last  time  we  met, 
and  when  I  was  so  ill  and  out  of  spirits,  that  indeed  I  scarcely  knew 
what  I  said."  And  herewith  the  lavender-coloured  dexter  kid-glove 
was  handed  out,  in  token  of  amity,  to  Huxter. 

The  dirty  fist  in  the  young  surgeon's  pocket  was  obliged  to  undouble 
itself,  and  come  out  of  its  ambush  disarmed.  The  poor  fellow  himself 
felt,  as  he  laid  it  in  Pen's  hand,  how  hot  his  own  was,  and  how  black 
— it  left  black  marks  on  Pen's  glove ;  he  saw  them, — he  would  have 
liked  to  have  clenched  it  again  and  dashed  it  into  the  other's  good- 
humoured  face ;  and  have  seen,  there  upon  that  ground,  with  Fanny, 
with  all  England  looking  on,  which  was  the  best  man — he,  Sam  Huxter 
of  Bartholomew's,  or  that  grinning  dandy. 

Pen,  with  ineffable  good-humour,  took  a  glass — he  didn't  mind 
what  it  was — he  was  content  to  drink  after  the  ladies ;  and  he  filled  it 
with  frothing  lukewarm  beer,  which  he  pronounced  to  be  delicious,  and 
which  he  drank  cordially  to  the  health  of  the  party. 

As  he  was  drinking  and  talking  on  in  an  engaging  manner,  a  young 
lady  in  a  shot  dove-coloured  dress,  with  a  white  parasol  lined  with 
pink,  and  the  prettiest  dove-coloured  boots  that  ever  stepped,  passed 
by  Pen,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a  stalwart  gentleman  with  a  military 
moustache. 

The  young  lady  clenched  her  little  fist,  and  gave  a  mischievous 
side-look  as  she  passed  Pen.  He  of  the  mustachios  burst  out  into  a 
jolly  laugh.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat  to  the  ladies  of  cab  No.  2002. 
You  should  have  seen  Fanny  Bolton's  eyes  watching  after  the  dove- 
coloured  young  lady!  Immediately  Huxter  perceived  the  direction 
which  they  took,  they  ceased  looking  after  the  dove-coloured  nymph, 
and  they  turned  and  looked  into  Sam  Huxter's  orbs  with  the  most 
artless  good-humoured  expression. 

"  What  a  beautiful  creature ! "  Fanny  said.  "  What  a  lovely  dress ! 
Did  you  remark,  Mr.  Sam,  such  little,  little  hands  ?" 

"  It  was  Capting  Strong,"  said  Mrs.  Bolton :  "  and  who  was  the 
young  woman,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  A  neighbour  of  mine  in  the  country — Miss  Amory,"  Arthur  said, 
— "  Lady  Clavering's  daughter.  You've  seen  Sir  Francis  often  in 
Shepherd's  Inn,  Mrs.  Bolton." 

As  he  spoke,  Fanny  built  up  a  perfect  romance  in  three  volumes — 
love — faithlessness — splendid  marriage  at  St.  George's  Hanover  Square 
— broken-hearted  maid — and  Sam  Huxter  was  not  the  hero  of  that 
story — poor  Sam,  who  by  this  time  had  got  out  an  exceedingly  rank 
Cuba  cigar,  and  was  smoking  it  under  Fanny's  little  nose. 

After  that  confounded  prig  Pendennis  joined  and  left  the  party,  the 


572  PENDENNIS. 

sun  was  less  bright  to  Sam  Huxter,  the  sky  less  blue — the  Sticks  had 
no  attraction  for  him — the  bitter  beer  was  hot  and  undrinkable — the 
world  was  changed.  He  had  a  quantity  of  peas  and  a  tin  pea-shooter 
in  the  pocket  of  the  cab  for  amusement  on  the  homeward  route.  He 
didn't  take  them  out,  and  forgot  their  existence  until  some  other  wag, 
on  their  return  from  the  races,  fired  a  volley  into  Sam"s  sad  face ;  upon 
which  salute,  after  a  few  oaths  indicative  of  surprise,  he  burst  into  a 
savage  and  sardonic  laugh. 

But  Fanny  was  charming  all  the  way  home.  She  coaxed,  and 
snuggled,  and  smiled.  She  laughed  pretty  laughs ;  she  admired  ever>'- 
thing;  she  took  out  the  darling  little  jack-in-the-boxes,  and  was  so 
obliged  to  Sam.  And  when  they  got  home,  and  Mr.  Huxter,  still  with 
darkness  on  his  countenance,  was  taking  a  frigid  leave  of  her — she 
burst  into  tears,  and  said  he  was  a  naughty  unkind  thing. 

Upon  which,  with  a  burst  of  emotion  almost  as  emphatic  as  hers, 
the  young  surgeon  held  the  girl  in  his  arms — swore  that  she  was  an 
angel,  and  that  he  was  a  jealous  brute;  owned  that  he  was  unworthy 
of  her,  and  that  he  had  no  right  to  hate  Pendennis ;  and  asked  her, 
implored  her,  to  say  once  more  that  she — 

That  she  what  ?  The  end  of  the  question  and  Fanny's  answer  were 
pronounced  by  lips  that  were  so  near  each  other,  that  no  bystander 
could  hear  the  words.  Mrs.  Bolton  only  said,  "  Come,  come,  Mr.  H. 
— no  nonsense,  if  you  please;  and  I  think  you've  acted  like  a  wicked 
wretch,  and  been  most  uncommon  cruel  to  Fanny,  that  I  do."' 

When  Arthur  left  No.  2002,  he  went  to  pay  his  respects  to  the 
carriage  to  which,  and  to  the  side  of  her  mamma,  the  dove-coloured 
author  o{  Mes  Larmes  had  by  this  time  returned.  Indefatigable  old 
Major  Pendennis  was  in  waiting  upon  Lady  Clavering,  and  had  occu- 
pied the  back  seat  in  her  carriage;  the  box  being  in  possession  of 
young  Hopeful,  under  the  care  of  Captain  Strong. 

A  number  of  dandies,  and  men  of  a  certain  fashion — of  military 
bucks,  of  young  rakes  of  the  public  offices,  of  those  who  may  be  styled 
men's  men  rather  than  ladies' — had  come  about  the  carriage  during 
its  station  on  the  hill — and  had  exchanged  a  word  or  two  with  Lady 
Clavering,  and  a  little  talk  (a  little  "  chaff"  some  of  the  most  elegant  of 
the  men  styled  their  conversation)  with  2^1  iss  Amory.  They  had  offered 
her  sportive  bets,  and  exchanged  with  her  all  sorts  of  free-talk  and 
knowing  inuendoes.  They  pointed  out  to  her  who  was  on  the  course : 
and  the  "  who  "  was  not  always  the  person  a  young  lady  should  know. 

When  Pen  came  up  to  Lady  Clavering's  carriage,  he  had  to  push 
his  way  through  a  crowd  of  these  young  bucks  who  were  paying  their 
court  to  Miss  Amory,  in  order  to  arrive  as  near  that  young  lady,  who 
beckoned  him  by  many  pretty  signals  to  her  side. 


PENDENNIS.  573 

"  Je  I'ai  vue,"  she  said ;  "  elle  a  de  bien  beaux  yeux ;  vous  etes  un 
monstre ! " 

"  Why  monster?  "  said  Pen,  with  a  laugh.  "  Honi  soil  qui  mal  y 
pense.  My  young  friend,  yonder,  is  as  well  protected  as  any  young 
lady  in  Christendom.  She  has  her  mamma  on  one  side,  her  pritendii 
on  the  other.    Could  any  harm  happen  to  a  girl  between  those  two  ? " 

'•  One  does  not  know  what  may  or  may  not  arrive,"  said  Miss 
Blanche,  in  French,  "  when  a  girl  has  the  mind,  and  when  she  is 
pursued  by  a  wicked  monster  like  you.  Figure  to  yourself.  Colonel, 
that  I  come  to  find  Monsieur  your  nephew  near  to  a  cab,  by  two 
ladies,  and  a  man — oh,  such  a  man !  and  who  ate  lobsters,  and  who 
laughed,  who  laughed !  " 

"It  did  not  strike  me  that  the  man  laughed,"  Pen  said.  "  And  as 
for  lobsters,  I  thought  he  would  have  liked  to  eat  me  after  the  lobsters. 
He  shook  hands  with  me,  and  griped  me  so,  that  he  bruised  my  glove 
black  and  blue.  He  is  a  young  surgeon.  He  comes  from  Clavering. 
Don't  you  remember  the  gilt  pestle  and  mortar  in  High  Street  .^ " 

"  If  he  attends  you  when  you  are  sick,"  continued  Miss  Amory, 
"  he  will  kill  you.     He  will  serve  you  right ;  for  you  are  a  monster." 

The  perpetual  recurrence  to  the  word  "monster"  jarred  upon  Pen. 
"  She  speaks  about  these  matters  a  great  deal  too  lightly,"  he  thought. 
'■'If  I  had  been  a  monster,  as  she  calls  it,  she  would  have  received  me 
just  the  same.  This  is  not  the  way  in  which  an  English  lady  should 
speak  or  think.  Laura  would  not  speak  in  that  way,  thank  God ; " 
and  as  he  thought  so,  his  own  countenance  fell. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking  ?  Are  you  going  to  bonder  me  at 
present?"  Blanche  asked.  "  Major,  scold  your  w/fr//^;// nephew.  He 
does  not  amuse  me  at  all.     He  is  as  bete  as  Captain  Crackenbury." 

"What  are  you  saying  about  me,  Miss  Amory?"  said  the  guards- 
man, with  a  grin.  "  If  it's  anything  good,  say  it  in  English,  for  I  don't 
understand  French  when  it's  spoke  so  devilish  quick." 

"  It  ainH  anything  good.  Crack,"  said  Crackenbur>-'s  fellow,  Captain 
Clinker.  "  Let's  come  away,  and  don't  spoil  sport.  They  say  Pen- 
dennis  is  sweet  upon  her." 

"  I'm  told  he's  a  devilish  clever  fellow,"  sighed  Crackenbury. 
"  Lady  Violet  Lebas  says  he's  a  devilish  clever  fellow.  He  wrote  a 
work,  or  a  poem,  or  something;  and  he  writes  those  devilish  clever 
things  in  the — in  the  papers,  you  know,  Dammy,  I  wish  /  was  a 
clev^er  fellow,  Clinker." 

"  That's  past  wishing  for,  Crack,  my  boy,"  the  other  said.  "  I 
can't  write  a  good  book,  but  I  think  I  can  make  a  pretty  good  one  on 
the  Derby.  What  a  flat  Clavering  is  !  And  the  Begum !  I  like  that 
old  Begum.  She's  worth  ten  of  her  daughter.  How  pleased  the  old 
girl  was  at  winning  the  lottery ! " 


574 


PENDENNIS. 


"  Clavering's  safe  to  pay  up,  ain't  he  ? "  asked  Captain  Cracken- 

bury. 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  his  friend;  and  they  disappeared,  to  enjoy  them- 
selves among  the  Sticks. 

Before  the  end  of  the  day's  amusements,  many  more  gentlemen  of 
Lady  Clavering's  acquaintance  came  up  to  her  carriage,  and  chatted 
with  the  party  which  it  contained.  The  worthy  lady  was  in-  high 
spirits  and  good-humour,  laughing  and  talking  according  to  her  wont, 
and  offering  refreshments  to  all  her  friends,  until  her  ample  baskets 
and  bottles  were  emptied,  and  her  servants  and  postilions  were  in  such 
a  royal  state  of  excitement  as  servants  and  postilions  commonly  are 
upon  the  Derby  day. 

The  Major  remarked  that  some  of  the  visitors  to  the  carriage 
appeared  to  look  with  rather  queer  and  meaning  glances  towards  its 
owner.  "  How  easily  she  takes  it ! "  one  man  whispered  to  another. 
"  The  Begum's  made  of  money,"  the  friend  replied.  "  How  easily  she 
takes  what  ? "  thought  old  Pendennis.  "  Has  anybody  lost  any 
money  ? "  Lady  Clavering  said  she  was  happy  in  the  morning  because 
Sir  Francis  had  promised  her  not  to  bet. 

Mr.  Welbore,  the  country  neighbour  of  the  Claverings,  was  passing 
the  carriage,  when  he  was  called  back  by  the  Begum,  who  ralhed  him 
for  wishing  to  cut  her.  "'  Why  didn't  he  come  before .-'  Why  didn't 
he  come  to  lunch  ? "'  Her  ladyship  was  in  great  delight,  she  told  him 
— she  told  everybody,  that  she  had  won  five  pounds  in  a  lotter)'.  As 
she  conveyed  this  piece  of  intelligence  to  him,  Mr.  Welbore  looked  so 
particularly  knowing,  and  withal  melancholy,  that  a  dismal  appre- 
hension seized  upon  Major  Pendennis.  "  He  would  go  and  look  after 
the  horses  and  those  rascals  of  postilions,  who  were  so  long  in  coming 
round."  When  he  came  back  to  the  carriage,  his  usually  benign  and 
smirking  countenance  was  obscured  by  some  sorrow.  "  What  is  the 
matter  with  you  now?"  the  good-natured  Begum  asked.  The  Major 
pretended  a  headache  from  the  fatigue  and  sunshine  of  the  day.  The 
carriage  wheeled  off  the  course  and  took  its  way  Londonwards,  not 
the  least  brilliant  equipage  in  that  vast  and  picturesque  procession. 
The  tipsy  drivers  dashed  gallantly  over  the  turf,  amidst  the  admiration 
of  foot-passengers,  the  ironical  cheers  of  the  little  donkey-carriages 
and  spring-vans,  and  the  loud  objurgations  of  horse-and-chaise  men, 
with  whom  the  reckless  post-boys  came  in  contact.  The  jolly  Begum 
looked  the  picture  of  good-humour,  as  she  reclined  on  her  splendid 
cushions;  the  lovely  Sylphide  smiled  with  languid  elegance.  Many 
an  honest  hohday-maker  with  his  family  wadded  into  a  tax-cart,  many 
a  cheap  dandy  working  his  way  home  on  his  weary  hack,  admired 
that  brilliant  turn-out,  and  thought,  no  doubt,  how  happy  those 
"  swells "  must  be.     Strong  sat  on  the  box  still,  with  a  lordlv  voice 


PENDEJSfNTS^  575 

calling  to  the  post-boys  and  the  crowd.  Master  Frank  had  been  put 
inside  of  the  carriage  and  was  asleep  there  by  the  side  of  the  Major, 
dozing  away  the  effects  of  the  constiant  luncheon  and  champagne  of 
which  he  had  freely  partaken. 

The  Major  was  revolving  in  his  mind,  meanwhile,  the  news  the 
receipt  of  which  had  made  him  so  grave.  "  If  Sir  Francis  Clavering 
goes  on  in  this  way,"  Peridennis  the  elder  thought,  "  this  little  tipsy 
rascal  will  be  as  bankrupt  as  his  father  and  grandfather  before  him. 
The  Begum's  fortune  can't  stand  such  drains  upon  it:  no  fortune 
can  stand  them:  she  has  paid  his  debts  half-a-dozen  times  already. 
A  few  years  more  of  the  turf,  and  a  feW  coups  like  this,  will  ruin  her." 

"Don't  you  think  we  could  get  up  races  at  Clavering,  mamma ? -' 
Miss  Amory  asked.  "  Yes,  we  must  have  them  there  again.  There 
were  races  there  in  the  old  times,  the  good  old  times.  It's  a  national 
amusement,  you  know :  and  we  could  have  a  Clavering  ball :  and  we 
might  have  dances  for  the  tenantry,  and  rustic  sports  in  the  park — Oh, 
it  would  be  charming." 

"  Capital  fun,"  said  mamma.     "  Wouldn't  it.  Major?" 

"  The  turf  is  a  very  expensive  amusement,  my  dear  lady,"  Major 
Pendennis  answered,  with  such  a  rueful  face,  that  the  Begum  rallied 
him,  and  asked  laughingly  v/hether  he  had  lost  money  on  the  race  ? 

After  a  slumber  of  about  an  hour-and-a-half,  the  heir  of  the  house 
began  to  exhibit  symptoms  of  wakefulness,  stretching  his  youthful 
arms  over  the  Major's  face,  and  kicking  his  sister's  knees  as  she  sate 
opposite  to  him.  When  the  amiable  youth  was  quite  restored  to  con- 
sciousness, he  began  a  sprightly  conversation. 

''  I  say,  ma,"  he  said,  "  I've  gone  and  done  it  this  time,  1  have." 

"  What  have  you  gone  and  done,  Franky  dear  ?"  asked  mamma. 

"  How  much  is  seventeen  half-crowns  ?  Two  pound  and  half-a- 
crov;n,  ain't  it  ?  I  drew  Borax  in  our  lottery,  but  I  bought  Podasokus 
and  Man-milliner  of  Leggat  minor  for  two  open  tarts  and  a  bottle  of 
ginger-beer." 

"  You  little  wicked  gambling  creature,  how  dare  you  begin  so  soon  ?" 
cried  Miss  Amory. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  if  you  please.  Who  ever  asked  yoitr  leave, 
miss  ?"  the  brother  said.     "  And  I  say,  ma — " 

"  Well,  Franky  dear  ?" 

"  You'll  tip  me  all  the  same,  you  know,  when  I  go  back — "  and  here 
he  broke  out  into  a  laugh.     "  I  say,  ma,  shall  I  tell  you  something  ?" 

The  Begum  expressed  her  desire  to  hear  this  something,  and  her 
son  and  heir  continued  : — 

"  When  me  and  Strong  was  down  at  the  grand  stand  after  the  race, 
and  I  was  talking  to  Leggat  minor,  who  was  there  with  his  governor, 
I  saw  pa  look  as  savage  as  a  bear.     And  1  say,  ma,  Leggat  minor  told 


576  PENDENNIS. 

me  that  he  heard  his  governor  say  that  pa  had  lost  seven  thousand 
backino"  the  favourite.  I'll  never  back  the  favourite  when  I'm  of  age. 
No,  no — hang  me  if  I  do  :  leave  me  alone,  Strong,  will  you?" 

'•Captain  Strong!  Captain  Strong!  is  this  true?"  cried  out  the 
unfortunate  Begum.  "  Has  Sir  Francis  been  betting  again  ?  He  pro- 
mised me  he  wouldn't.     He  gave  me  his  word  of  honour  he  wouldn't." 

Strong,  from  his  place  on  the  box,  had  overheard  the  end  of  young 
Clavering's  communication,  and  was  tr\-ing  in  vain  to  stop  his  unlucky 
tongue. 

'•  I'm  afraid  it's  true,  ma'am,''  he  said,  turning  round.  '•  I  deplore 
the  loss  as  much  as  you  can.  He  promised  me  as  he  promised  you  ; 
but  the  play  is  too  strong  for  him  !  he  can't  refrain  from  it." 

Lady  Clavering  at  this  sad  news  burst  into  a  fit  of  tears.  She 
deplored  her  wretched  fate  as  the  most  miserable  of  women.  She 
declared  she  would  separate,  and  pay  no  more  debts  for  this  ungrateful 
man.  She  narrated  with  tearful  volubility  a  score  of  stories  only  too 
authentic,  which  showed  how  her  husband  had  deceived,  and  how  con- 
stantly she  had  befriended  him  :  and  in  this  melancholy  condition, 
whilst  young  Hopeful  was  thinking  about  the  two  guineas  which  he 
himself  had  won ;  and  the  Major  revolving,  in  his  darkened  mind, 
whether  certain  plans  which  he  had  been  forming  had  better  not  be 
abandoned  ;  the  splendid  carriage  drove  up  at  length  to  the  Begum's 
house  in  Grosvenor  Place  ;  the  idlers  and  boys  lingering  about  the 
place  to  witness,  according  to  public  wont,  the  close  of  the  Derby  Day, 
and  cheering  the  carriage  as  it  drew  up,  and  envying  the  happy  folks 
who  descended  from  it. 

'•  And  it's  for  the  son  of  this  man  that  I  am  made  a  beggar  I " 
Blanche  said,  quivering  with  anger,  as  she  walked  upstairs  leaning 
en  the  Major's  arm — "  for  this  cheat — for  this  black-leg — for  this  liar 
— for  this  robber  of  women." 

'•  Calm  yourself,  my  dear  Miss  Blanche,"  the  old  gentleman  said  ; 
'■  I  pray  calm  yourself  You  have  been  hardly  treated,  most  unjustly. 
But  remember  that  you  have  always  a  friend  in  me  ;  and  trust  to  an 
old  fellow  who  will  \.x\  and  serve  you." 

And  the  young  lady,  and  the  heir  of  the  hopeful  house  of  Clavering, 
having  retired  to  their  beds,  the  remaining  three  of  the  Epsom  party 
remained  for  some  time  in  deep  consultation. 


PENDENNIS.  577 


CHAPTER   LIX. 

EXPLANATIONS. 

ALMOST  a  year,  as  the  reader  will  perceive,  has  passed  since  an 
event  described  a  few  pages  back.  Arthur's  black  coat  is  about 
to  be  exchanged  for  a  blue  one.  His  person  has  undergone  other 
more  pleasing  and  remarkable  changes.  His  wig  has  been  laid  aside, 
and  his  hair,  though  somewhat  thinner,  has  returned  to  public  view. 
And  he  has  had  the  honour  of  appearing  at  Court  in  the  uniform  of  a 

cornet  of  the  Clavering  troop  of  the shire  Yeomanry  Cavalry,  being 

presented  to  the  Sovereign  by  the  Marquis  of  Stcyne. 

This  was  a  measure  strongly  and  pathetically  urged  by  Arthur's 
uncle.  The  Major  would  not  hear  of  a  year  passing  before  this 
ceremony  of  gentlemanhood  was  gone  through.  The  old  gentleman 
thought  that  his  nephew  should  belong  to  some  rather  more  select 
Club  than  the  Polyanthus;  and  has  announced  everywhere  in  the 
world  his  disappointment  that  the  young  man's  property  has  turned 
out  not  by  any  means  as  well  as  he  could  have  hoped,  and  is  under 
fifteen  hundred  a  year. 

That  is  the  amount  at  which  Pendennis's  property  is  set  down  in 
the  world,  where  his  publishers  begin  to  respect  him  much  more  than 
formerly,  and  where  even  mammas  arc  by  no  means  uncivil  to  him. 
For  if  the  pretty  daughters  are,  naturally,  to  marry  people  of  very 
different  expectations — at  any  rate,  he  will  be  eligible  for  the  plain 
ones  :  and  if  the  brilliant  and  fascinating  Mira  is  to  hook  an  Earl,  poor 
little  Beatrice,  who  has  one  shoulder  higher  than  the  other,  must  hang 
on  to  some  boor  through  life,  and  why  should  not  Mr.  Pendennis  be 
her  support  ?  In  the  very  first  winter  after  the  accession  to  his 
mother's  fortune,  Mrs.  Hawxby  in  a  country-house  caused  her  Beatrice 
to  learn  billiards  from  Mr.  Pendennis,  and  would  be  driven  by  nobody 
but  him  in  the  pony  carriage,  because  he  was  literary  and  her  Beatrice 
was  literary  too,  and  declared  that  the  young  man,  under  the  instiga- 
tion of  his  horrid  old  uncle,  had  behaved  most  infamously  in  trifling 
with  Beatrice's  feelings.  The  truth  is  the  old  gentleman,  who  knew 
Mrs.  Hawxby's  character,  and  how  desperately  that  lady  would  practise 
upon  unwary  young  men,  had  come  to  the  country-house  in  question 
and  carried  Arthur  out  of  the  danger  of  her  immediate  claws,  though 

37 


5-8  PENDENNIS. 

not  out  of  the  reach  of  her  tongue.  The  elder  Pendennis  would  have 
had  his  nephew  pass  a  part  of  the  Christmas  at  Clavering,  whither  the 
family  had  returned;  but  Arthur  had  not  the  heart  for  that.  Clavering 
was  too  near  poor  old  Fairoaks ;  and  that  was  too  full  of  sad  recollec- 
tions for  the  young  man. 

We  have  lost  sight  of  the  Claverings,  too,  until  their  re-appearance 
upon  the  Epsom  race-ground,  and  must  give  a  brief  account  of  them 
in  the  interval.  During  the  past  year,  the  world  has  not  treated  any 
member  of  the  Clavering  family  very  kindly.  Lady  Clavering,  one  of 
the  best-natured  women  that  ever  enjoyed  a  good  dinner,  or  made  a 
slip  in  grammar,  has  had  her  appetite  and  good-nature  sadly  tried  by 
constant  family  grievances,  and  disputes  such  as  make  the  efforts  of 
the  best  French  cook  unpalatable,  and  the  most  delicately-stuffed  sofa- 
cushion  hard  to  lie  on.  "  I'd  rather  have  a  turnip.  Strong,  for  dessert, 
than  that  pine-apple,  and  all  them  Muscatel  grapes,  from  Clavering," 
says  poor  Lady  Clavering,  looking  at  her  dinner-table,  and  confiding 
her  griefs  to  her  faithful  friend,  "  if  I  could  but  have  a  little  quiet  to  eat 
it  with.  Oh,  how  much  happier  I  was  when  I  was  a  -widow,  and  before 
all  this  money  fell  in  to  me  ! " 

The  Clavering  family  had  indeed  made  a  false  start  in  life,  and 
had  got  neither  comfort,  nor  position,  nor  thanks  for  the  hospitalities 
which  they  administered,  nor  a  return  of  kindness  from  the  people 
whom  they  entertained.  The  success  of  their  first  London  season 
was  doubtful ;  and  their  failure  afterwards  notorious.  "  Human 
patience  was  not  great  enough  to  put  up  with  Sir  Francis  Clavering," 
people  said.  "  He  was  too  hopelessly  low,  dull,  and  disreputable. 
You  could  not  say  what,  but  there  was  a  taint  about  the  house  and 
its  C7itourages.  Who  was  the  Begum,  with  her  money  and  without 
her  /rs,  and  where  did  she  come  from  ?  What  an  extraordinary  little 
piece  of  conceit  the  daughter  was,  with  her  Gallicised  graces  and 
daring  affectations,  not  fit  for  well-bred  English  girls  to  associate 
with !  What  strange  people  were  those  they  assembled  round  about 
them  !  Sir  Francis  Clavering  was  a  gambler,  living  notoriously  in  the 
society  of  black-legs  and  profligates.  Hely  Clinker,  who  was  in  his 
regiment,  said  that  he  not  only  cheated  at  cards,  but  showed  the 
white  feather.  What  could  Lady  Rockminster  have  meant  by  taking 
her  up  ?"  After  the  first  season,  indeed.  Lady  Rockminster,  who  had 
taken  up  Lady  Clavering,  put  her  down ;  the  great  ladies  would  not 
take  their  daughters  to  her  parties  :  the  young  men  who  attended 
them  behaved  with  the  most  odious  freedom  and  scornful  familiarit>- ; 
and  poor  Lady  Clavering  herself  avowed  that  she  was  obliged  to  take 
what  she  called  "  the  canal "  into  her  parlour,  because  the  tiptops 
wouldn't  come. 

She  had  not  the  slightest  ill-will  towards  "the  canal,"  the  poor 


I 


PENDENNIS.  579 

dear  lady,  or  any  pride  about  herself,  or  idea  that  she  was  better  than 
her  neighbour ;  but  she  had  taken  implicitly  the  orders  which  on  her 
entry  into  the  world  her  social  godmother  had  given  her :  she  had 
been  willing  to  know  whom  they  knew,  and  ask  whom  they  asked. 
The  "canal,"  in  fact,  was  much  pleasanter  than  what  is  called 
"society;"  but,  as  we  said  before,  that  to  leave  a  mistress  is  easy, 
while,  on  the  contrary,  to  be  left  by  her  is  cruel ;  so  you  may  give  up 
society  without  any  great  pang,  or  anything  but  a  sensation  of  relief 
at  the  parting;  but  severe  are  the  mortifications  and  pains  you  have 
if  society  gives  up  you. 

One  young  man  of  fashion  we  have  mentioned,  who  at  least  it 
might  have  been  expected  would  have  been  found  faithful  amongst 
the  faithless,  and  Harry  Foker,  Esq.,  was  indeed  that  young  man. 
But  he  had  not  managed  matters  with  prudence ;  and  the  unhappy 
passion  at  first  confided  to  Pen,  became  notorious  and  ridiculous  to 
the  town,  was  carried  to  the  ears  of  his  weak  and  fond  mother,  and 
finally  brought  under  the  cognisance  of  the  bald-headed  and  inflexible 
Foker  senior. 

When  Mr.  Foker  learned  this  disagreeable  news,  there  took  place 
between  him  and  his  son  a  violent  and  painful  scene  which  ended  in 
the  poor  little  gentleman's  banishment  from  England  for  a  year,  with 
a  positive  order  to  return  at  the  expiration  of  that  time  and  complete 
his  marriage  with  his  cousin ;  or  to  retire  into  private  life  and  three 
hundred  a  year  altogether,  and  never  see  parent  or  brewery  more. 
Mr.  Henry  Foker  went  away  then,  carrying  with  him  that  grief  and 
care  which  passes  free  at  the  strictest  Custom-houses,  and  which  pro- 
verbiaMf  accompanies  the  exile,  and  with  this  crape  over  his  eyes, 
even  the  Parisian  Boulevard  looked  melancholy  to  him,  and  the  sky 
of  Italy  black. 

To  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  that  year  was  a  most  unfortunate  one. 
The  events  described  in  the  last  chapter  came  to  complete  the  ruin  of 
the  year.  It  was  that  year  of  grace  in  which,  as  our  sporting  readers 
may  remember,  Lord  Harrowhill's  horse  (he  was  a  classical  young 
nobleman,  and  named  his  stud  out  of  the  Iliad) — when  Podasokus 
won  the  "  Derby,"  to  the  dismay  of  the  knowing  ones,  who  pronounced 
the  winning  horse's  name  in  various  extraordinary  ways,  and  who 
backed  Borax,  who  was  nowhere  in  the  race.  Sir  Francis  Clavering, 
who  was  intimate  with  some  of  the  most  rascally  characters  of  the 
turf,  and,  of  course,  had  valuable  "  information,"  had  laid  heavy  odds 
against  the  winning  horse,  and  backed  the  favourite  freely,  and  the 
result  of  his  dealings  was,  as  his  son  correctly  stated  to  poor  Lady 
Clavering,  a  loss  of  seven  thousand  pounds. 

Indeed,  it  was  a  cruel  blow  upon  the  lady,  who  had  discharged  her 
husb^ind's  debts  many  times  over :  who  had  received  as  many  times 


53o 


PENDEiXNIS. 


his  oaths  and  promises  of  amendment :  who  had  paid  his  money- 
lenders and  horse-dealers ;  who  had  furnished  his  town  and  country 
houses,  and  who  was  called  upon  now  instantly  to  meet  this  enormous 
sum,  the  penalty  of  her  cowardly  husbands  extravagance. 

It  has  been  described  in  former  pages  how  the  elder  Pendennis 
had  become  the  ad\'iser  of  the  Clavering  family,  and  in  his  quality  of 
intimate  friend  of  the  house,  had  gone  over  every  room  of  it,  and  even 
seen  that  ugly  closet  which  we  all  of  us  have,  and  in  which,  according 
to  the  proverb,  the  family  skeleton  is  locked  up.  About  the  Baronet's 
pecuniary  matters,  if  the  Major  did  not  know,  it  was  because  Clavering 
himself  did  not  know  them,  and  hid  them  from  himself  and  others  in 
such  a  hopeless  entanglement  of  lies,  that  it  was  impossible  for  adviser 
or  attorney  or  principal  to  get  an  accurate  knowledge  of  his  affairs. 
But,  concerning  Lady  Clavering,  the  Major  was  much  better  informed ; 
and  when  the  unlucky  mishap  of  the  "  Derby  "  arose,  he  took  upon 
himself  to  become  completely  and  thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  her 
means,  whatsoever  they  were ;  and  was  now  accurately  informed  of 
the  vast  and  repeated  sacrifices  which  the  widow  Amor)'  had  made  in 
behalf  of  her  present  husband. 

He  did  not  conceal, — and  he  had  won  no  small  favour  from  Miss 
Blanche  by  avowing  it, — his  opinion,  that  Lady  Claverings  daughter 
had  been  hardly  treated  at  the  expense  of  her  son,  by  her  second 
marriage:  and  in  his  conversations  with  Lady  Clavering  had  fairly 
hinted  that  he  thought  Miss  Blanche  ought  to  have  a  better  provision. 
We  have  said  that  he  had  already  given  the  widow  to  understand  that 
he  knew  all  the  particulars  of  her  early  and  unfortunate  history, 
having  been  in  India  at  the  time  when — when  the  painful  circum- 
stances occurred  which  had  ended  in  her  parting  from  her  first 
husband.  He  could  tell  her  where  to  find  the  Calcutta  newspaper 
which  contained  the  account  of  Amor>-^s  trial,  and  he  showed,  and 
the  Begum  was  not  a  little  grateful  to  him  for  his  forbearance,  how, 
being  aware  all  along  of  this  mishap  which  had  befallen  her,  he  had 
kept  aU  knowledge  of  it  to  himself,  and  been  constantly  the  friend  of 
her  family. 

"  Interested  motives,  my  dear  Lady  Clavering,"  he  said,  "  of  course 
I  may  have  had.  We  aU  have  interested  motives,  and  mine,  I  don't 
conceal  from  you,  was  to  make  a  marriage  between  my  nephew  and 
your  daughter."  To  which  Lady  Clavering,  perhaps  with  some  sur-  I  D; 
prise  that  the  Major  should  choose  her  family  for  a  union  with  his  1  cor 
own,  said  she  was  quite  willing  to  consent.  I  tir 

But  frankly  he  said,  "  My  dear  lady,  my  boy  has  but  five  hundred 
a-year,  and  a  wife  with  ten  thousand  pounds  to  her  fortune  would 
scarcely  better  him.  We  could  do  better  for  him  than  that,  permit 
me  to  say;  and  he  is  a  shrewd  cautious  voung  fellow  who  has  sown 


PENDENNIS.  S8r 

his  wild  oats  now — who  has  ver)'  good  parts  and  plenty  of  ambition 
— and  whose  object  in  marrying  is  to  better  himself.  If  you  and 
Sir  Francis  chose — and  Sir  Francis,  take  my  word  for  it,  will  refuse 
you  nothing — you  could  put  Arthur  in  a  way  to  advance  very  con- 
siderably in  the  world,  and  show  the  stuff  which  he  has  in  him.  Of 
what  use  is  that  seat  in  Parliament  to  Clavering,  who  scarcely  ever 
shows  his  face  in  the  House,  or  speaks  a  word  there .''  Fm  told  by 
gentlemen  who  heard  my  boy  at  Oxbridge,  that  he  was  famous  as  an 
orator,  begad ! — and  once  put  his  foot  into  the  stirrup  and  mount 
him,  Fve  no  doubt  he  won't  be  the  last  of  the  field,  ma'am.  Fve 
tested  the  chap,  and  know  him  pretty  well,  I  think.  He  is  much  too 
lazy,  and  careless,  and  flighty  a  fellow,  to  make  a  jog-trot  journey,  and 
arrive,  as  your  lawyers  do,  at  the  end  of  their  lives !  but  give  him  a 
start  and  good  friends,  and  an  opportunity,  and  take  my  word  for  it, 
he'll  make  himself  a  name  that  his  sons  shall  be  proud  of.  I  don't 
see  any  way  for  a  fellow  like  him  \.o  parvenir,  but  by  making  a  prudent 
marriage,  not  with  a  beggarly  heiress — to  sit  down  for  life  upon  a 
miserable  fifteen  hundred  a-year — but  with  somebody  whom  he  can 
help,  and  who  can  help  him  forward  in  the  world,  and  whom  he  can 
give  a  good  name  and  a  station  in  the  country,  begad,  in  return  for  the 
advantages  which  she  brings  him.  It  would  be  better  for  you  to  have 
a  distinguished  son-in-law,  than  to  keep  your  husband  on  in  Parlia- 
ment, who's  of  no  good  to  himself  or  to  anybody  else  there,  and  that's, 
I  say,  why  I've  been  interested  about  you,  and  offer  you  what  I  think 
a  good  bargain  for  both." 

"  You  know  I  look  upon  Arthur  as  one  of  the  family  almost  now," 
said  the  good-natured  Begum ;  "  he  comes  and  goes  when  he  likes ; 
and  the  more  I  think  of  his  dear  mother,  the  more  I  see  there's  few 
people  so  good — none  so  good  to  me.  And  I'm  sure  I  cried  when  I 
heard  of  her  death,  and  would  have  gone  into  mourning  for  her 
myself,  only  black  don't  become  me.  And  I  know  who  his  mother 
wanted  him  to  marry — Laura,  I  mean — whom  old  Lady  Rockminster 
has  taken  such  a  fancy  to,  and  no  wonder.  She's  a  better  girl  than 
my  girl.  I  know  both.  And  my  Betsy — Blanche,  I  mean — ain't  been 
a  comfort  to  me.  Major.     It's  Laura  Pen  ought  to  marr)-." 

"  Marry  on  five  hundred  a-year !  My  dear  good  soul,  you  are 
mad ! "  Major  Pendennis  said.  "  Think  over  what  I  have  said  to  you. 
Do  nothing  in  your  affairs  with  that  unhappy  husband  of  yours  without 
consulting  me ;  and  remember  that  old  Pendennis  is  always  your 
friend." 

For  some  time  previous.  Pen's  uncle  had  held  similar  language 
to  Miss  Amory.  He  had  pointed  out  to  her  the  convenience  of  the 
match  which  he  had  at  heart,  and  was  bound  to  say,  that  mutual  con- 
venience was  of  all  things  the  very  best  in  the  world  to  marry  upon — 


582 


PEA'DENNIS. 


the  only  thing.  "  Look  at  your  love-marriages,  my  dear  young  crea- 
ture. The  love-match  people  are  the  most  notorious  of  all  for  quar- 
relling afterwards ;  and  a  girl  who  runs  away  with  Jack  to  Gretna 
Green,  constantly  runs  away  with  Tom  to  Switzerland  afterAvards. 
The  great  point  in  marriage  is  for  people  to  agree  to  be  useful  to  one 
another.  The  lady  brings  the  means,  and  the  gentleman  avails  him- 
self of  them.  My  boy's  wife  brings  the  horse,  and,  begad,  Pen  goes  in 
and  wins  the  plate.  That's  what  I  call  a  sensible  union.  A  couple 
like  that  have  something  to  talk  to  each  other  about  when  they  come 
together.  If  you  had  Cupid  himself  to  talk  to — if  Blanche  and  Pen 
were  Cupid  and  Psyche,  begad — they'd  begin  to  yawn  after  a  few 
evenings,  if  they  had  nothing  but  sentiment  to  speak  on."' 

As  for  Miss  Amor>',  she  was  contented  enough  with  Pen  as  long 
as  there  was  nobody  better.  And  how  many  other  young  ladies  are 
like  her  ? — and  how  many  love-marriages  carry  on  well  to  the  last  ? — 
and  how  many  sentimental  firms  do  not  finish  in  bankruptcy  ? — and 
how  many  heroic  passions  don't  dwindle  down  into  despicable  indiffer- 
ence, or  end  in  shameful  defeat  ? 

These  views  of  life  and  philosophy  the  Major  was  constantly, 
according  to  his  custom,  inculcating  on  Pen,  whose  mind  was  such 
that  he  could  see  the  right  on  both  sides  of  many  questions,  and,  com- 
prehending the  sentimental  life  which  was  quite  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
honest  Majors  intelligence,  could  understand  the  practical  hfe  too,  and 
accommodate  himself,  or  think  he  could  accommodate  himself,  to  it. 
So  it  came  to  pass  that  during  the  spring  succeeding  his  mother's 
death  he  was  a  good  deal  under  the  influence  of  his  uncle's  advice. 
and  domesticated  in  Lady  Clavering's  house ;  and  in  a  measure  was 
accepted  by  Miss  Amor>-  without  being  a  suitor,  and  was  received 
without  being  engaged.  The  young  people  were  extremely  familiar, 
without  being  particularly  sentimental,  and  met  and  parted  with  each 
other  in  perfect  good-humour.  "  And  I,"  thought  Pendennis,  "  am  the 
fellow  who  eight  years  ago  had  a  grand  passion,  and  last  year  v.  ns 
raging  in  a  fever  about  Briseis ! '"' 

Yes,  it  was  the  same  Pendennis,  and  time  had  brought  to  him,  .:.s 
to  the  rest  of  us,  its  ordinary  consequences,  consolations,  developments. 
We  alter  very  little.  When  we  talk  of  this  man  or  that  woman  being 
no  longer  the  same  person  whom  we  remember  in  youth,  and  remark 
(of  course  to  deplore)  changes  in  our  friends,  we  don't,  perhaps,  calcu- 
late that  circumstance  only  brings  out  the  latent  defect  or  quality,  and 
does  not  create  it.  The  selfish  languor  and  indifference  of  to-day's  pos- 
session is  the  consequence  of  the  selfish  ardour  of  yesterday's  pursuit : 
the  scorn  and  weariness  which  cries  vanitas  vanitatutn  is  but  the 
lassitude  of  the  sick  appetite  palled  with  pleasure:  the  insolence  of 


PENDENNIS.  583 

the  successful  parvenu  is  only  the  necessary  continuance  of  the  career 
of  the  needy  struggler :  our  mental  changes  are  like  our  grey  hairs  or 
our  wrinkles — but  the  fulfilment  of  the  plan  of  mortal  growth  and 
decay :  that  which  is  snow-white  now  was  glossy  black  once ;   that 
which  is  sluggish  obesity  to-day  was  boisterous  rosy  health  a  few  years 
back;   that  calm  weariness,  benevolent,  resigned,  and  disappointed, 
was  ambition,  fierce  and  violent,  but  a  few  years  since,  and  has  only 
settled  into  submissive  repose  after  many  a  battle  and  defeat.     Lucky 
he  who  can  bear  his  failure  so  generously,  and  give  up  his  broken 
sword  to  Fate  the  Conqueror,  with  a  manly  and  humble  heart !     Are 
you  not  awe-stricken,  you,  friendly  reader,  who,  taking  the  page  up  for 
a  moment's  light  reading,  lay  it  down,  perchance,  for  a  graver  reflec- 
tion,— to  think  how  you,  who  have  consummated  your  success  or  your 
disaster,  may  be  holding  marked  station,  or  a  hopeless  and  nameless 
place,  in  the  crowd — who  have  passed  through  how  many  struggles  of 
defeat,  success,  crime,  remorse,  to  yourself  only  known ! — who  may 
have  loved  and  grown  cold,  wept  and  laughed  again,  how  often  ! — to 
think  how  you  are  the  same  You,  whom  in  childhood  you  remember, 
before  the  voyage  of  life  began  ?     It  has  been  prosperous,  and  you  are 
riding  into  port,  the  people  huzzaing  and  the  guns  saluting, — and  the 
lucky  captain  bows  from  the  ship's  side,  and  there  is  a  care  under 
the  star  on  his  breast  which  nobody  knows  of:  or  you  are  wrecked, 
and  lashed,  hopeless,  to  a  solitary  spar  out  at  sea: — the  sinking  man 
and  the  successful  one  are  thinking  each  about  home,  very  likely,  and 
remembering  the  time  when  they  were  children ;  alone  on  the  hope- 
less spar    drowning  out  of  sight :  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd 
applauding  you. 


584  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER     LX. 

CONVERSATIONS. 

OUR  good-natured  Begum  was  at  first  so  much  enraged  at  this  last 
instance  of  her  husband's  duplicity  and  folly,  that  she  refused 
to  give  Sir  Francis  Clavering  any  aid  in  order  to  meet  his  debts  of 
honour,  and  declared  that  she  would  separate  from  him,  and  lea\  c 
him  to  the  consequences  of  his  incorrigible  weakness  and  waste. 
After  that  fatal  day-'s  transactions  at  the  Derby,  the  unlucky  gambler 
was  in  such  a  condition  of  mind  that  he  was  disposed  to  avoid  every- 
body ;  alike  his  turf-associates  with  whom  he  had  made  debts  whicli 
he  trembled  lest  he  should  not  have  the  means  of  paying,  and  his 
wife,  his  long-suftering  banker,  on  whom  heresonably  doubted  whether 
he  should  be  allowed  any  longer  to  draw.  When  Lady  Clavering 
asked  the  next  morning  whether  Sir  Francis  was  in  the  house,  she 
received  answer  that  he  had  not  returned  that  night,  but  had  sent  a 
messenger  to  his  valet,  ordering  him  to  forward  clothes  and  letters  by 
the  bearer.  Strong  knew  that  he  should  have  a  visit  or  a  message 
from  him  in  the  course  of  that  or  the  subsequent  day,  and  accordingly 
got  a  note  beseeching  him  to  call  upon  his  distracted  friend  F.  C.  at 
Short's  Hotel,  Blackfriars,  and  ask  for  Mr.  Francis  there.  For  the 
Baronet  was  a  gentleman  of  that  peculiarity  of  mind  that  he  would 
rather  tell  a  lie  than  not,  and  always  began  a  contest  with  fortune  by 
running  away  and  hiding  himself.  The  Boots  of  Mr.  Short's  esta- 
blishment, who  carried  Clavering's  message  to  Grosvenor  Place,  and 
brought  back  his  carpet-bag,  was  instantly  aware  who  was  the  owner 
of  the  bag,  and  he  imparted  his  information  to  the  footman  who  was 
laying  the  breakfast-table,  who  carried  down  the  news  to  the  ser\-ants' 
hall,  who  took  it  to  Mrs.  Bonner,  my  lady's  housekeeper  and  confiden- 
tial maid,  who  carried  it  to  my  lady.  And  thus  every  single  person  in 
the  Grosvenor  Place  establishment  knew  that  Sir  Francis  was  in  hiding, 
under  the  name  of  Francis,  at  an  inn  in  the  Blackfriars  Road.  And 
Sir  Francis's  coachmen  told  the  news  to  other  gentlemen's  coachmen, 
who  carried  it  to  their  masters,  and  to  the  neighbouring  Tattersall's, 
where  very  gloomy  anticipations  were  formed  that  Sir  Francis 
Clavering  was  about  to  make  a  tour  in  the  Levant. 

In  the  course  of  that  day  the  number  of  letters  addressed  to  Sir 


PENDENNIS.  585 

Francis  Clavering,  Bart.,  which  found  their  way  to  his  hall  table,  was 
quite  remarkable.  The  French  cook  sent  in  his  account  to  my  lady  ; 
the  tradesmen  who  supplied  her  ladyship's  table,  and  Messrs.  Finer 
and  Gimcrack,  the  mercers  and  ornamental  dealers,  and  Madame 
Crinoline,  the  eminent  miUiner,  also  forwarded  their  little  bills  to  her 
ladyship,  in  company  with  Miss  Amory's  private,  and  by  no  means 
inconsiderable,  account  at  each  establishment. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  after  the  Derby,  when  Strong  (after  a 
colloquy  with  his  principal  at  Short's  Hotel,  whom  he  found  crying 
and  drinking  Curagoa)  called  to  transact  business  according  to  his 
custom  at  Grosvenor  Place,  he  found  all  these  suspicious  documents 
ranged  in  the  Baronet's  study  ;  and  began  to  open  them  and  examine 
them  with  a  rueful  countenance. 

Mrs.  Bonner,  my  lady's  maid  and  housekeeper,  came  down  upon 
him  whilst  engaged  in  this  occupation.  Mrs.  Bonner,  a  part  of  the 
family  and  as  necessary  to  her  mistress  as  the  Chevalier  was  to  Sir 
Francis,  was  of  course  on  Lady  Clavering's  side  in  the  dispute  between 
her  and  her  husband,  and  as  by  duty  bound  even  more  angry  than 
her  ladyship  herself. 

"  She  won't  pay,  if  she  takes  my  advice,"  Mrs.  Bonner  said. 
"  You'll  please  to  go  back  to  Sir  Francis,  Captain — and  he  lurking 
about  in  a  low  public-house  and  don't  dare  to  face  his  wife  like  a  man  ! 
— and  say  that  we  won't  pay  his  debts  no  longer.  We  made  a  man  of 
him,  we  took  him  out  of  gaol  (and  other  folks  too  perhaps),  we've  paid 
his  debts  over  and  over  again — we  set  him  up  in  Parliament  and  gave 
him  a  house  in  town  and  country,  and  where  he  don't  dare  show  his 
face,  the  shabby  sneak  !  We've  given  him  the  horse  he  rides  and  the 
dinner  he  eats  and  the  very  clothes  he  has  on  his  back  ;  and  we  will 
give  him  no  more.  Our  fortune,  such  as  is  left  of  it,  is  left  to  our- 
selves, and  we  won't  waste  any  more  of  it  on  this  ungrateful  man. 
We'll  give  him  enough  to  live  upon  and  leave  him,  that's  what  we'll 
do  :  and  that's  what  you  may  tell  him  from  Susan  Bonner." 

Susan  Bonner's  mistress  hearing  of  Strong's  arrival  sent  f6r  him  at 
this  juncture,  and  the  Chevalier  went  up  to  her  ladyship  not  without 
hopes  that  he  should  find  her  more  tractable  than  her  factotum  Mrs. 
Bonner.  Many  a  time  before  had  he  pleaded  his  client's  cause  with 
Lady  Clavering  and  caused  her  good-nature  to  relent.  He  tried  again 
once  more.  He  painted  in  dismal  colours  the  situation  in  which  he 
had  found  Sir  Francis :  and  would  not  answer  for  any  consequences 
which  might  ensue  if  he  could  not  find  means  of  meeting  his  en- 
gagements. 

"  Kill  hisself,"  laughed  Mrs.  Bonner,  "  kill  hisself,  will  he  ?  Dying's 
the  best  thing  he  could  do."  Strong  vowed  that  he  had  found  him 
with  the  razors  on  the  table ;  but  at  this,  in  her  turn,  Lady  Clavering 


586  PENDENNJS. 

laughed  bitterly.  "  He'll  do  himself  no  harm,  as  long  as  there's  a 
shilling  left  of  which  he  can  rob  a  poor  woman.  His  life's  quite  safe, 
Captain  :  you  may  depend  on  that.  Ah !  it  was  a  bad  day  that  ever  I 
set  eyes  on  him." 

"  He's  worse  than  the  first  man,"  cried  out  my  lady's  aide-de-camp. 
"  He  was  a  man,  he  was — a  wild  devil,  but  he  had  the  courage  of  a 
man — whereas  this  fellow — what's  the  use  of  my  lady  paying  his  bills, 
and  selling  her  diamonds,  and  forgiving  him  ?  He'll  be  as  bad  again 
next  year.  The  very  next  chance  he  has  he'll  be  a  cheating  of  her, 
and  robbing  of  her;  and  her  money  will  go  to  keep  a  pack  of  rogues 
and  swindlers — I  don't  mean  you.  Captain — you've  been  a  good  friend 
to  us  enough,  bating  we  wish  we'd  never  set  eyes  on  you." 

The  Chevalier  saw  from  the  words  which  Mrs.  Bonner  had  let  slip 
regarding  the  diamonds,  that  the  kind  Begum  was  disposed  to  relent 
once  more  at  least,  and  that  there  were  hopes  still  for  his  principal. 

"  Upon  my  word,  ma'am,"  he  said,  with  a  real  feeling  of  sjTnpathy 
for  Lady  Clavering's  troubles,  and  admiration  for  her  untiring  good- 
nature, and  with  a  show  of  enthusiasm  which  advanced  not  a  little  his 
graceless  patron's  cause — '•'  anything  you  say  against  Clavering,  or 
Mrs.  Bonner  here  cries  out  against  me,  is  no  better  than  we  deserve, 
both  of  us,  and  it  was  an  unlucky  day  for  you  when  you  saw  either. 
He  has  behaved  cruelly  to  you :  and  if  you  were  not  the  most  generous 
and  forgiving  woman  in  the  world,  I  know  there  would  be  no  chance 
for  him.  But  you  can't  let  the  father  of  your  son  be  a  disgraced  man, 
and  send  little  Frank  into  the  world  with  such  a  stain  upon  him.  Tie 
him  down ;  bind  him  by  any  promises  you  like  :  I  vouch  for  him  that 
he  wUl  subscribe  them." 

"  And  break  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Bonner. 

"  And  keep  'em  this  time,"  cried  out  Strong.  "  He  must  keep 
them.  If  you  could  have  seen  how  he  wept,  ma'am  !  '  Oh,  Strong,' 
he  said  to  me,  '  it's  not  for  myself  I  feel  now :  it's  for  my  boy — it's  for 
the  best  woman  in  England,  whom  I  have  treated  basely — I  know  I 
have.'  He  didn't  intend  to  bet  upon  this  race,  ma'am — indeed  he 
didn't.  He  was  cheated  into  it :  all  the  ring  was  taken  in.  He  thought 
he  might  make  the  bet  quite  safely,  without  the  least  risk.  And  it 
wUl  be  a  lesson  to  him  for  all  his  life  long.  To  see  a  man  cr)' — oh, 
it's  dreadful." 

"  He  don't  think  much  of  making  my  dear  Missus  cry,"  said  Mrs. 
Bonner — "poor  dear  soul! — look  if  he  does.  Captain." 

"  If  you've  the  soul  of  a  man,  Clavering,"  Strong  said  to  his  prin- 
cipal, when  he  recounted  this  scene  to  him,  "you'll  keep  your  promise 
this  time:  and,  so  help  me  Heaven!  if  you  break  word  with  her,  I'll 
turn  against  you  and  tell  all." 


PENDENNIS.  587 

"  What  all  ?  "  cried  Mr.  Francis,  to  whom  his  ambassador  brought 
the  news  back  at  Short's  Hotel,  where  Strong  found  the  Baronet  crying 
and  drinking  Curagoa. 

"  Psha !  Do  you  suppose  I  am  a  fool  ? "  burst  out  Strong.  "  Do 
you  suppose  I  could  have  lived  so  long  in  the  world,  Frank  Clavering, 
without  having  my  eyes  about  me?  You  know  I  have  but  to  speak 
and  you  are  a  beggar  to-morrow.  And  I  am  not  the  only  man  who 
knows  your  secret." 

"  Who  else  does  ? "  gasped  Clavering. 

"  Old  Pendennis  does,  or  I  am  very  much  mistaken.  He  recog- 
nized the  man  the  first  night  he  saw  him,  when  he  came  drunk  into 
your  house." 

"He  knows  it,  does  he  ? "  shrieked  out  Clavering.  "  Damn  him — 
kill  him." 

"  You'd  like  to  kill  us  all,  wouldn't  you,  old  boy  ?  "  said  Strong,  with 
a  sneer,  puffing  his  cigar. 

The  Baronet  dashed  his  weak  hand  against  his  forehead ;  perhaps 
the  other  had  interpreted  his  wish  rightly.     "  Oh,  Strong !  "  he  cried, 

"  if  I  dared,  I'd  put  an  end  to  myself,  for  I'm  the  d est  miserable 

dog  in  all  England.  It's  that  that  makes  me  so  wild  and  reckless. 
It's  that  which  makes  me  take  to  drink  (and  he  drank,  with  a 
trembling  hand,  a  bumper  of  his  fortifier — the  Curagoa),  and  to  live 
about  with  these  thieves.     I  know  they're  thieves,  every  one  of  'em, 

d d  thieves.     And — and  how  can  I  help  it  ? — and  I  didn't  know 

it,  you  know — and,  by  Gad,  I'm  innocent — and  until  I  saw  the  d d 

scoundrel  first,  I  knew  no  more  about  it  than  the  dead — and  I'll  fly, 
and  I'll  go  abroad  out  of  the  reach  of  the  confounded  hells,  and  I'll 
bury  myself  in  a  forest,  by  Gad !  and  hang  myself  up  to  a  tree^and, 
oh — I'm  the  most  miserable  beggar  in  all  England  ! "  And  so  with 
more  tears,  shrieks,  and  curses,  the  impotent  wretch  vented  his  grief 
and  deplored  his  unhappy  fate ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  groans  and  despair 
and  blasphemy,  vowed  his  miserable  repentance. 

The  honoured  proverb  which  declares  that  to  be  an  ill  wind  which 
blows  good  to  nobody,  was  verified  in  the  case  of  Sir  Francis  Cla- 
vering and  another  of  the  occupants  of  Mr.  Strong's  chambers  in 
Shepherd's  Inn.  The  man  was  "  good,"  by  a  lucky  hap,  with  whom 
Colonel  Altamont  made  his  bet ;  and  on  the  settling  day  of  the 
Derby — as  Captain  Clinker,  who  was  appointed  to  settle  Sir  Francis 
Clavering's  book  for  him  (for  Lady  Clavering,  by  the  advice  of  IMajor 
Pendennis,  would  not  allow  the  Baronet  to  liquidate  his  own  money 
transactions),  paid  over  the  notes  to  the  Baronet's  many  creditors — 
Colonel  Altamont  had  the  satisfaction  of  receiving  the  odds  of  thirty 
to  one  in  fifties,  which  he  had  taken  against  the  winning  horse  of 
the  day. 


588  PENDEXNIS. 

Numbers  of  the  Colonel's  friends  were  present  on  the  occasion  to 
congratulate  him  on  his  luck — all  Altamont's  own  set  and  the  gents 
who  met  in  the  private  parlour  of  the  convivial  Wheeler,  my  host  of  the 
"■  Harlequin's  Head,"  came  to  witness  their  comrade's  good  fortune, 
and  would  have  liked,  with  a  generous  svinpathy  for  success,  to  share 
in  it,  "  Now  was  the  time,"  Tom  Diver  had  suggested  to  the  Colonel, 
"  to  have  up  the  specie  ship  that  was  sunk  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  with 
the  three  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  dollars  on  board,  besides  bars 
and  doubloons."  "  The  Tredyddlums  were  very  low — to  be  bought 
for  an  old  song — never  was  such  an  opportunity  for  buying  shares," 
Mr.  Keightley  insinuated;  and  Jack  Holt  pressed  forward  his  tobacco- 
smuggling  scheme,  the  audacity  of  which  pleased  the  Colonel  more 
than  any  other  of  the  speculations  proposed  to  him.  Then  of  the 
'•  Harlequin's  Head"  boys,  there  was  Jack  Rackstraw,  who  knew  of  a 
pair  of  horses  which  the  Colonel  must  buy ;  Tom  Fleet,  whose  satirical 
paper,  "  The  Swell,"  wanted  but  two  hundred  pounds  of  capital  to  be 
worth  a  thousand  a  year  to  any  man — "  with  such  a  power  and  in- 
fluence, Colonel,  you  rogue,  and  the  entree  of  all  the  green-rooms  in 
London,"  Tom  urged  ;  whilst  little  Moss  Abrams  entreated  the  Colonel 
not  to  listen  to  these  absurd  fellows  with  their  humbugging  specula- 
tions, but  to  invest  his  money  in  some  good  bills  which  Moss  could 
get  for  him,  and  which  would  return  him  fifty  per  cent,  as  safe  as  the 
Bank  of  England. 

Each  and  all  of  these  worthies  came  round  the  Colonel  with  their 
various  blandishments;  but  he  had  courage  enough  to  resist  them, 
and  to  button  up  his  notes  in  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  go  home  to 
Strong,  and  "  sport "  the  outer  door  of  the  chambers.  Honest  Strong 
had  given  his  fellow-lodger  good  advice  about  all  his  acquaintances : 
and  though,  when  pressed,  he  did  not  mind  frankly  taking  twenty 
pounds  himself  out  of  the  Colonel's  winnings,  Strong  was  a  great  deal 
too  upright  to  let  others  cheat  him. 

He  was  not  a  bad  fellow  when  in  good  fortune,  this  Altamont. 
He  ordered  a  smart  livery  for  Grady,  and  made  poor  old  Costigan 
shed  tears  of  quickly  dried  gratitude  by  giving  him  a  five-pound  note 
after  a  snug  dinner  at  the  Back-Kitchen,  and  he  bought  a  green  shawl 
for  Mrs.  Bolton,  and  a  yellow  one  for  Fanny:  the  most  brilliant 
"sacrifices"  of  a  Regent  Street  haberdashers  window.  And  a  short 
time  after  this,  upon  her  birthday,  which  happened  in  the  month  of 
June,  Miss  Amory  received  from  "a  friend"  a  parcel  containing  an 
enormous  brass-inlaid  writing-desk,  in  which  there  was  a  set  of 
amethysts,  the  most  hideous  eyes  ever  looked  upon,  — a  musical 
snuff-box,  and  two  Keepsakes  of  the  year  before  last,  and  accom- 
panied with  a  couple  of  go\vn-pieces  of  the  most  astounding  cclours, 
the  receipt  of  which  goods  made  the  Sylphide  laugh   and  wonder 


PENDENNIS.  589 

immoderately.  Now  it  is  a  fact  that  Colonel  Altamont  had  made  a 
purchase  of  cigars  and  French  silks  from  some  duffers  in  Fleet  Street 
about  this  period ;  and  he  was  found  by  Strong  in  the  open  Auctien- 
Room  in  Cheapside,  having  invested  some  money  in  two  desks,  several 
pairs  of  richly-plated  candlesticks,  a  dinner  ^pergne,  and  a  bagatelle- 
board.  The  dinner  ^pergne  remained  at  chambers,  and  figured  at  the 
banquets  there,  which  the  Colonel  gave  pretty  freely.  It  seemed 
beautiful  in  his  eyes,  until  Jack  Holt  said  it  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
taken  "  in  a  bill."     And  Jack  Holt  certainly  knew. 

The  dinners  were  pretty  frequent  at  chambers,  and  Sir  Francis 
Clavering  condescended  to  partake  of  them  constantly.  His  own 
house  was  shut  up  :  the  successor  of  Mirobolant,  who  had  sent  in  his 
bills  so  prematurely,  was  dismissed  by  the  indignant  Lady  Clavering : 
the  luxuriance  of  the  establishment  was  greatly  pruned  and  reduced. 
One  of  the  large  footmen  was  cashiered,  upon  which  the  other  gave 
warning,  not  liking  to  serve  without  his  mate,  or  in  a  family  where 
on'y  one  footman  was  kep'.  General  and  severe  economical  reforms 
were  practised  by  the  Begum  in  her  whole  household,  in  consequence 
of  the  extravagance  of  which  her  graceless  husband  had  been  guilty. 
The  Major  was  her  ladyship's  friend;  Strong  on  the  part  of  poor 
Clavering;  her  ladyship's  lawyer,  and  the  honest  Begum  herself, 
executed  these  reforms  with  promptitude  and  severity.  After  paying 
the  Baronet's  debts,  the  settlement  of  which  occasioned  considerable 
public  scandal,  and  caused  the  Baronet  to  sink  even  lower  in  the 
world's  estimation  than  he  had  been  before.  Lady  Clavering  quitted 
London  for  Tunbridge  Wells  in  high  dudgeon,  refusing  to  see  her 
reprobate  husband,  whom  nobody  pitied.  Clavering  remained  in 
London  patiently,  by  no  means  anxious  to  meet  his  wife's  just  in- 
dignation, and  sneaked  in  and  out  of  the  House  of  Commons,  whence 
he  and  Captain  Raff  and  Mr.  Marker  would  go  to  have  a  game  at 
billiards  and  a  cigar :  or  showed  in  the  sporting  public-houses ;  or  he 
might  be  seen  lurking  about  Lincoln's  Inn  and  his  lawyers',  where  the 
principals  kept  him  for  hours  waiting,  and  the  clerks  winked  at  each 
other,  as  he  sate  in  their  office.  No  wonder  that  he  relished  the 
dinners  at  Shepherd's  Inn,  and  was  perfectly  resigned  there:  resigned? 
he  was  so  happy  nowhere  else;  he  was  wretched  amongst  his  equals, 
who  scorned  him — but  here  he  was  the  chief  guest  at  the  table,  where 
they  continually  addres'^d  him  with  "  Yes,  Sir  Francis,"  and  "  No, 
Sir  Francis ; "  where  he  told  his  wretched  jokes,  and  where  he  quavered 
his  dreary  little  French  song,  after  Strong  had  sung  his  jovial  chorus, 
and  honest  Costigan  had  piped  his  Irish  ditties.  Such  a  jolly  m6iage 
as  Strong's,  with  Grady's  Irish  stew,  and  the  Chevalier's  brew  of  punch 
after  dinner,  would  have  been  welcome  to  many  a  better  man  than 
Clavering,  the  solitude  of  whose  great  house  at  home  frightened  him. 


jgo  "  PENDENXIS. 

where  he  was  attended  only  by  the  old  woman  who  kept  the  house, 
and  his  valet  who  sneered  at  him. 

" Yes,  dammit,"  said  he,  to  his  friends  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  "that 
fellow  of  mine,  I  must  turn  him  away,  only  I  owe  him  two  years'  wages, 
curse  him,  and  can't  ask  my  lady.  He  brings  me  my  tea  cold  of  a 
morning,  with  a  dem'd  leaden  tea-spoon,  and  he  says  my  lady's  sent 
all  the  plate  to  the  bankers'  because  it  ain't  safe.—  Now  ain't  it  hard 
that  she  won't  trust  me  with  a  single  tea-spoon ;  ain't  it  ungentleman- 
like,  Altamont  ?  You  know  my  lady's  of  low  birth — that  is — I  beg 
your  pardon — hem — that  is,  it's  most  cruel  of  her  not  to  show  more 
confidence  in  me.  And  the  very  servants  begin  to  laugh — the  dam 
scoundrels  !  I'll  break  every  bone  in  their  great  hulking  bodies,  curse 
'em,  I  will. — They  don't  answer  my  beU:  and — and  my  man  was  at 
Vauxhall  last  night  with  one  of  my  dress  shirts  and  my  velvet  waist- 
coat on — I  know  it  was  mine — the  confounded  impudent  blackguard 
— and  he  went  on  dancing  before  my  eyes,  confound  him  !  I'm  sure 
he'll  live  to  be  hanged — he  deserves  to  be  hanged— all  those  infernal 
rascals  of  valets." 

He  was  very  kind  to  Altamont  now :  he  listened  to  the  Colonel's 
loud  stories  when  Altamont  described  how — when  he  was  working  his 
way  home  once  from  New  Zealand,  where  he  had  been  on  a  whaling 
expedition — he  and  his  comrades  had  been  obliged  to  shirk  on  board 
at  night,  to  escape  from  their  wives  by  Jove — and  how  the  poor  devils 
put  out  in  their  canoes  when  they  saw  the  ship  under  sail,  and  paddled 
madly  after  her :  how  he  had  been  lost  in  the  bush  once  for  three 
months  in  New  South  Wales,  when  he  was  there  once  on  a  trading 
speculation  :  how  he  had  seen  Boney  at  Saint  Helena,  and  been  pre- 
sented to  him  with  the  rest  of  the  officers  of  the  Indiaman  of  which  he 
was  a  mate — to  all  these  tales  (and  over  his  cups  Altamont  told  many 
of  them ;  and  it  must  be  owned,  lied  and  bragged  a  great  deal)  Sir 
Francis  now  listened  with  great  attention ;  making  a  point  of  drink- 
ing wine  with  Altamont  at  dinner,  and  of  treating  him  with  ever}- 
distinction. 

"  Leave  him  alone,  I  know  what  he's  a-coming  to,"  Altamont  said, 
laughing,  to  Strong,  who  remonstrated  with  him,  ''and  leave  me 
alone :  I  know  what  I'm  a-telling,  very  well.  I  was  officer  on  board 
an  Indiaman,  so  I  was :  I  traded  to  New  South  Wales,  so  I  did,  in  a 
ship  of  my  own,  and  lost  her.  I  became  officer  to  the  Nawaub,  so  I 
did ;  only  me  and  my  royal  master  have  had  a  difterence,  Strong — 
that's  it.  \\'ho's  the  better  or  the  worse  for  what  I  tell } — or  knows 
anything  about  me  ?  The  other  chap  is  dead— shot  in  the  bush,  and 
his  body  rekognised  at  Sydney.  If  I  thought  anybody  would  spht,  do 
you  think  I  wouldn't  wring  his  neck  ?  I've  done  as  good  before  now. 
Strong— J  tok\  you  how  I  did  for  the  overseer  before  I  took  leave— but 


PENDENNIS.  591 

ill  fair  fight  I  mean — in  fair  fight ;  or,  rayther,  he  had  the  best  of  it. 
He  had  his  gun  and  bay'net,  and  I  had  only  an  axe.     Fifty  of  em  saw 

it — ay,  and  cheered  me  when  I  did  it — and  Td  do  it  again, him, 

wouldn't  I  ?  I  ain't  afraid  of  anybody;  and  I'd  have  the  life  of  the 
man  who  split  upon  me.  That's  my  maxim,  and  pass  me  the  liquor — 
You  wouldn't  turn  on  a  man.  I  know  you.  You're  an  honest  feller, 
and  will  stand  by  a  feller,  and  have  looked  death  in  the  face  like  a 
man.  But  as  for  that  lily-livered  sneak — that  poor  lyin'  swindlin' 
cringin'  cur  of  a  Clavering — who  stands  in  my  shoes — stands  in  my 
shoes,  hang  him !  I'll  make  him  pull  my  boots  off  and  clean  'em,  I 
will.  Ha,  ha !  "  Here  he  burst  out  into  a  wild  laugh,  at  which  Strong 
got  up  and  put  away  the  brandy-bottle.  The  other  still  laughed  good- 
humouredly.  "  You're  right,  old  boy,"  he  said ;  "  you  always  keep 
your  head  cool,  you  do— and  when  I  begin  to  talk  too  much — I  say, 
when  I  begin  to  pitch,  I  authorise  you,  and  order  you,  and  command 
you,  to  put  away  the  brandy-bottle." 

The  event  for  which,  with  cynical  enjoyment,  Altamont  had  been 
on  the  look-out,  came  very  speedily.  One  day.  Strong  being  absent 
upon  an  errand  for  his  principal.  Sir  Francis  made  his  appearance  in 
the  chambers,  and  found  the  envoy  of  the  Nawaub  alone.  He  abused 
the  world  in  general  for  being  heartless  and  unkind  to  him :  he  abused 
his  wife  for  being  ungenerous  to  him:  he  abused  Strong  for  being 
ungrateful — hundreds  of  pounds  had  he  given  Ned  Strong — been  his 
friend  for  life  and  kept  him  out  of  gaol,  by  Jove, — and  now  Ned  was 
taking  her  ladyship's  side  against  him  and  abetting  her  in  her  infernal 
unkind  treatment  of  him.  "  They've  entered  into  a  conspiracy  to  keep 
me  penniless,  Altamont,"  the  Baronet  said :  "  they  don't  give  me  as 
much  pocket-money  as  Frank  has  at  school." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  down  to  Richmond  and  borrow  of  him, 
Clavering  ?"  Altamont  broke  out  with  a  savage  laugh.  "  He  wouldn't 
see  his  poor  old  beggar  of  a  father  without  pocket-money,  would  he  ? " 

"  I  tell  you,  I've  been  obliged  to  humiliate  myself  cruelly,"  Clavering 
said.  "  Look  here,  sir — look  here,  at  these  pawn-tickets !  Fancy  a 
Member  of  Parliament  and  an  old  English  Baronet,  by  Gad !  obliged 
to  put  a  drawing-room  clock  and  a  Buhl  inkstand  up  the  spout;  and  a 
gold  duck's-head  paper-holder,  that  I  dare  say  cost  my  wife  five  pound, 
for  which  they'd  only  give  me  fifteen-and-six !  Oh,  it's  a  humiliating 
thing,  sir,  poverty  to  a  man  of  my  habits  ;  and  it's  made  me  shed  tears, 

sir, — tears ;  and  that  d d  valet  of  mine — curse  him,  I  wish  he  was 

hanged ! — has  had  the  confounded  impudence  to  threaten  to  tell  my 
lady :  as  if  the  things  in  my  own  house  weren't  my  own,  to  sell  or  to 
keep,  or  to  fling  out  of  window  if  I  choose — by  Gad !  the  confounded 
scoundrel." 

"  Cry   a  little ;    don't  mind  cryin'  before  me — it'll    relieve    you, 


592  PENDENNIS. 

Clavering,"  the  other  said.  "  Why,  I  say,  old  feller,  what  a  happy 
feller  I  once  thought  you,  and  what  a  miserable  son  of  a  gun  you 
really  are ! " 

"  It's  a  shame  that  they  treat  me  so,  ain't  it?"  Clavering  went  on, 
— for  though  ordinarily  silent  and  apathetic,  about  his  own  griefs  the 
Baronet  could  whine  for  an  hour  at  a  time.  "  And — and,  by  Gad,  sir, 
I  haven't  got  the  money  to  pay  the  very  cab  that's  waiting  for  me  at 
the  door;  and  the  portress,  that  Mrs.  Bolton,  lent  me  three  shillin's, 

and  I  don't  like  to  ask  her  for  any  more :  and  I  asked  that  d d  old 

Costigan,  the  confounded  old  penniless  Irish  miscreant,  and  he  hadn't 
got  a  shillin',  the  beggar ;  and  Campion's  out  of  town,  or  else  he'd  do 
a  little  bill  for  me,  1  know  he  would." 

"  I  thought  you  swore  on  your  honour  to  your  wife  that  you 
wouldn't  put  your  name  to  paper,"  said  Mr.  Altamont,  puffing  at 
his  cigar. 

"  Why  does  she  leave  me  without  pocket-money  then  ?  Damme,  I 
must  have  money,"  cried  out  the  Baronet.  "  Oh,  Am ,  oh,  Alta- 
mont, I'm  the  most  miserable  beggar  alive." 

"  You'd  like  a  chap  to  lend  you  a  twenty-pound  note,  wouldn't  you 
now  ?  "  the  other  asked. 

"  If  you  would,  I'd  be  grateful  to  you  for  ever — for  ever,  my  dearest 
friend,"  cried  Clavering. 

"  How  much  would  you  give  ?  Will  you  give  a  fifty-pound  bill,  at 
six  months,  for  half  down  and  half  in  plate .''"  asked  Altamont. 

"  Yes,  I  would,  so  help  me  — ,  and  pay  it  on  the  day.'"  screamed 
Clavering.  "  I'll  make  it  payable  at  my  bankers' :  I'll  do  anything 
you  like." 

"  Well,  I  was  only  chaffing  you.     I'll  give  you  twenty  pound." 

"  You  said  a  pony,"  interposed  Clavering ;  "  my  dear  fellow,  you 
said  a  pony,  and  I'll  be  eternally  obUged  to  you ;  and  I'll  not  take  it  as 
a  gift — only  as  a  loan,  and  pay  you  back  in  six  months.  I  take  my 
oath  I  will" 

"Well — well — there's  the  money.  Sir  Francis  Clavering.  I  ain't 
a  bad  fellow.  When  I've  money  in  my  pocket,  dammy,  I  spend  it 
like  a  man.  Heine's  five-and-twenty  for  you.  Don't  be  losing  it  at  the 
hells  now.  Don't  be  making  a  fool  of  yourself.  Go  down  to  Clavering 
Park,  and  it'll  keep  you  ever  so  long.  You  needn't  'ave  butchers' 
meat :  there's  pigs,  I  dare  say,  on  the  premises :  and  you  can  shoot 
rabbits  for  dinner,  you  know,  everj'  day  till  the  game  comes  in. 
Besides,  the  neighbours  will  ask  you  about  to  dinner,  you  know,  some- 
times :  for  you  are  a  Baronet,  though  you  have  outnm  the  constable. 
And  you've  got  this  comfort,  that  I'm  off  your  shoulders  for  a  good  bit 
to  come — p'raps  this  two  years — if  I  don't  play,  and  I  don't  intend  to 
touch  the  confounded  black  and  red :  and  by  that  time  my  lady,  as 


PENDENNIS.  593 

you  call  her — Jimmy,  I  used  to  say — will  have  come  round  again; 
and  you'll  be  ready  for  me,  you  know,  and  come  down  handsomely  to 
yours  truly." 

At  this  juncture  of  their  conversation  Strong  returned,  nor  did 
the  Baronet  care  much  about  prolonging  the  talk,  having  got  the 
money;  and  he  made  his  way  from  Shepherd's  Inn,  and  went  home 
and  bullied  his  servant  in  a  manner  so  unusually  brisk  and  insolent, 
that  the  man  concluded  his  master  must  have  pawned  some  more  of 
the  house  furniture,  or,  at  any  rate,  have  come  into  possession  of  some 
ready  money. 

'•  And  yet  I've  looked  over  the  house,  Morgan,  and  I  don't  think 
he  has  took  any  more  of  the  things,"  Sir  Francis's  valet  said  to 
Major  Pendennis's  man,  as  they  met  at  their  Club  soon  after.  "  My 
lady  locked  up  a'most  all  the  bejewtary  afore  she  went  away,  and  he 
couldn't  take  away  the  picters  and  looking-glasses  in  a  cab;  and 
he  wouldn't  spout  the  fenders  and  fire-irons — he  ain't  so  bad  as  that. 
But  he's  got  money  somehow.  He's  so  dam'd  imperent  when  he  have. 
A  few  nights  ago  I  sor  him  at  Vauxhall,  where  I  was  a  polkin'  with 
Lady  Hemly  Babewood's  gals — a  wery  pleasant  room  that  is,  and 
an  uncommon  good  lot  in  it,  hall  except  the  'ousekeeper,  and  she's 
methodisticle — I  was  a  polkin' — you're  too  old  a  cove  to  polk,  Mr. 
Morgan — and  'ere's  your  'ealth— and  I  'appened  to  'ave  on  some  of 
Clavering's  'abberdashery,  and  he  sor  it  too :  and  he  didn't  dare  so  much 
as  speak  a  word." 

"  How  about  the  house  in  St.  John's  Wood  "i"  Mr.  Morgan  asked. 

"  Execution  in  it. — Sold  up  hevery  thing  :  ponies,  and  pianna,  and 
brougham,  and  all.  Mrs.  Montague  Rivers  hoff  to  Boulogne, — non 
est  inwentus,  Mr.  Morgan.  It's  my  belief  she  put  the  execution  in 
herself:  and  was  tired  of  him." 

"  Play  much  ?  "  asked  Morgan. 

"  Not  since  the  smash.  When  your  Governor,  and  the  lawyers, 
and  my  lady  and  him  had  that  tremendous  scene :  Jie  went  down 
on  his  knees,  my  lady  told  Mrs.  Bonner,  as  told  me,— and  swoar  as 
he  never  more  would  touch  a  card  or  a  dice,  or  put  his  name  to  a 
bit  of  paper ;  and  my  lady  was  a  goin'  to  give  him  the  notes  down  to 
pay  his  liabilities  after  the  race :  only  your  Governor  said,  (which  he 
vrote  it  on  a  piece  of  paper,  and  passed  it  across  the  table  to  the 
awyer  and  my  lady,)  that  some  one  else  had  better  book  up  for  him, 
or  he'd  have  kep'  some  of  the  money.  He's  a  sly  old  cove,  your 
ov'nor." 

The  expression  of  "  old  cove,"  thus  flippantly  applied  by  the 
ounger  gentleman  to  himself  and  his  master,  displeased  Mr.  Morgan 
xceedingly.     On  the   first   occasion,  wher    Mr.   Lightfoot  used  the 

3« 


594  PEiYDENAIS. 

obnoxious  expression,  his  comrade's  anger  was  only  indicated  by  a 
silent  frown;  but  on  the  second  offence,  Morgan,  who  was  smoking 
his  cigar  elegantly,  and  holding  it  on  the  tip  of  his  penknife,  withdrew 
the  cigar  from  his  lips,  and  took  his  young  friend  to  task. 

"Don't  call  Major  Pcndennis  an  old  cove,  if  you'll  'ave  the 
goodness,  Lightfoot,  and  don't  call  me  an  old  cove,  nether.  Such 
words  ain't  used  in  society;  and  we  have  lived  in  the  fust  society 
both  at  'ome  and  foring.  We've  been  intimate  with  the  fust  statesmen 
of  Europe.  When  we  go  abroad  we  dine  with  Prince  Metternich  and 
Louy  Philup  reg'lar.  We  go  here  to  the  best  houses,  the  tiptops,  I 
tell  you.  We  ride  with  Lord  John  and  the  noble  Whycount  at  the  'edd 
of  Foring  Affairs.  We  dine  with  the  Hearl  of  Burgrave,  and  are  con- 
sulted by  the  Marquis  of  Steyne  in  everythink.  We  might  to  know  a 
thing  or  two,  Mr.  Lightfoot.  You're  a  young  man ;  Pm  an  old  cove,  as 
you  say.  We've  both  seen  the  world,  and  we  both  know  that  it  ain't 
money,  nor  bein'  a  Baronet,  nor  'avin'  a  town  and  country  'ouse,  nor  a 
paltry  five  or  six  thousand  a  year " 

"  It's  ten,  Mr.  Morgan,"  cried  Mr.  Lightfoot,  with  great  animation. 

"  It  7nay  have  been,  sir,"  Morgan  said,  with  calm  severity ;  "  it  may 
have  been,  Mr.  Lightfoot,  but  it  ain't  six  now,  nor  five,  sir.  It's  been 
doosedly  dipped  and  cut  into,  sir,  by  the  confounded  cxtravygance  of 
your  master,  with  his  helbow  shakin',  and  his  bill  discountin',  and  his 
cottage  in  the  Regency  Park,  and  his  many  mckednesses.  He's  a  bad 
'un,  Mr.  Lightfoot, — a  bad  lot,  sir,  and  that  you  know.  And  it  ain't 
money,  sir, — not  such  money  as  that,  at  any  rate,  come  from  a  Calcuttar 
attorney,  and  I  dussay  wrung  out  of  the  pore  starving  blacks — that  will 
give  a  pusson  position  in  society,  as  you  know  very  well.  We've  no 
money,  but  we  go  everywhere ;  there's  not  a  housekeeper's  room,  sir, 
in  this  town  of  any  consiquince,  where  James  ^Morgan  ain't  welcome. 
And  it  was  me  Vv-ho  got  you  into  this  club,  Lightfoot,  as  you  ver\-  well 
know,  though  I  am  an  old  cove,  and  they  would  have  blackballed  you 
without  me  as  sure  as  your  name  is  Frederick. 

"  I  kiiow  they  would,  Mr.  iMorgan,"  said  the  other,  with  much 
humility. 

"  Well,  then,  don't  call  me  an  old  cove,  sir.  It  ain't  gentleman- 
like, Frederick  Lightfoot,  which  I  knew  you  when  you  was  a  cab-boy, 
and  when  your  father  was  in  trouble,  and  got  you  the  place  you  have 
now  when  the  Frenchman  went  away.  And  if  you  think,  sir.  that 
because  you're  making  up  to  Mrs.  Bonner,  who  may  have  saved  her 
two  thousand  pound— and  I  daresay  she  has  in  five-and-twenty  vears, 
as  she  have  lived  confidential  maid  to  Lady  Clavering— yet.  sir,  you 
must  remember  who  put  you  into  that  service,  and  who  knows  what 
you  were  before,  sir,  and  it  don't  become  you,  Frederick  Lightfoot.  to 
call  me  an  old  cove." 


PEiYDENXIS,  595 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Morgan — I  can't  do  more  than  make  an 
apology — will  you  have  a  glass,  sir,  and  let  me  drink  your  'ealth  ?  " 

"  You  know  I  don't  take  sperrits,  Lightfoot,''  replied  ^Morgan, 
appeased.  "  And  so  you  and  Mrs.  Bonner  is  going  to  put  up  together, 
are  you  ? " 

"  She's  old,  but  two  thousand  pound's  a  good  bit,  you  see,  Mr. 
Morgan.  And  we'll  get  the  '  Clavering  Arms '  for  a  veiy  little ;  and 
that'll  be  no  bad  thing  when  the  railroad  runs  through  Clavering.  And 
when  we  are  there,  I  hope  you'll  come  and  see  us,  Mr.  Morgan." 

"  It's  a  stoopid  place,  and  no  society,"  said  Mr.  Morgan.  "  I  know 
it  well.  In  Mrs.  Pendennis's  time  we  used  to  go  down  reg'lar,  and  the 
hair  refreshed  me  after  the  London  racket." 

"  The  railroad  will  improve  Mr.  Arthur's  property,"  remarked  Light- 
foot.     "  What's  about  the  figure  of  it,  should  you  say,  sir  ? " 

"  Under  fifteen  hundred,  sir,"  answered  Morgan ;  at  v/hich  the 
other,  who  knew  the  extent  of  poor  Arthui-'s  acres,  thrust  his  tongue  in 
his  cheek,  but  remained  wisely  silent. 

"  Is  his  man  any  good,  Mr.  Morgan  ?"  Lightfoot  resumed. 

"  Pidgeon  ain't  used  to  society  as  yet  ;  but  he's  young  and  has  good 
talents,  and  has  read  a  good  deal,  and  I  dessay  he  will  do  very  well," 
replied  Morgan.  "  He  wouldn't  quite  do  for  this  kind  of  thing,  Light- 
foot, for  he  ain't  seen  the  world  yet." 

"  When  the  pint  of  sherry  for  which  ]\Ir.  Lightfoot  called,  upon 
Mr.  Morgan's  announcement  that  he  dechned  to  drink  spirits,  had 
been  discussed  by  the  two  gentlemen,  who  held  the  wine  up  to  the 
light,  and  smacked  their  lips,  and  winked  their  eyes  at  it,  and  rallied 
the  landlord  as  to  the  vintage,  in  the  most  approved  manner  of  con- 
noisseurs, Morgan's  ruffled  equanimity  was  quite  restored,  and  he  was 
prepared  to  treat  his  young  friend  with  perfect  good-humour. 

''  What  d'you  think  about  IMiss  Amory,  Lightfoot — tell  us  in  con- 
fidence, now — Do  you  think  we  should  do  well — you  understand — if  we 
make  Miss  A.  into  Mrs.  A.  P.,  coinprendy-vojis?''' 

"  She  and  her  ma's  always  quarrellin',"  said  Mr.  Lightfoot.  '•  Bonner 
is  more  than  a  match  for  the  old  lady,  and  treats  Sir  Francis  like- 
like  this  year  spill,  which  I  fling  into  the  grate.  But  she  daren't  say 
a  word  to  Miss  Amory.  No  more  dare  none  of  us.  When  a  visitor 
comes  in,  she  smiles  and  languishes,  you'd  think  that  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  her  mouth  :  and  the  minute  he  is  gone,  very  hkely,  she  flares 
up  like  a  little  demon,  and  says  things  fit  to  send  you  wild.  If  Mr. 
Arthur  comes,  it's  '  Do  let's  sing  that  there  delightful  song  ! '  or, 
'  Come  and  write  me  them  pooty  verses  in  this  halbum  ! '  and  very 
likely  she's  been  a  rihn'  her  mother,  or  sticking  pins  into  her  maid,  a 
minute  before.  She  do  stick  pins  into  her  and  pinch  her.  Mary  Hann 
showed  me  one  of  her  arms  quite  black  and  blue  ;  and  I  recklect 


-0  PENDENNIS. 

Mrs.  Honncr,  who's  as  jealous  of  me  as  a  old  cat,  boxed  her  ears  for 
showing  mc.  And  then  you  should  see  Miss  at  luncheon,  when  there's 
nobod>°but  the  family.  She  makej  b'leave  she  never  heats,  and  my  ! 
you  should  only  jest  see  her.  She  has  Mary  Hann  to  bring  her  up 
plum-cakes  and  creams  into  her  bed-room  ;  and  the  cook's  the  only 
man  in  the  house  she's  civil  to.  Bonner  says  how,  the  second  season 
in  London,  Mr.  Soppington  was  a  goin'  to  propose  for  her,  and  actially 
came  one  day,  and  sor  her  fling  a  book  into  the  fire,  and  scold  her 
mother  so,  that  he  went  down  softly  by  the  back  droring-room  door, 
which  he  came  in  by ;  and  next  thing  we  heard  of  him  was,  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Rider.  Oh,  she's  a  devil,  that  little  Blanche,  and 
that's  my  candig  apinium,  Mr.  Morgan." 

"Apinion,  not  apinium,  Lightfoot,  my  good  fellow,"  Mr.  Morgan 
said,  with  parental  kindness  ;  and  then  asked  of  his  own  bosom,  with 
a  sigh.  Why  the  deuce  does  my  Governor  want  Master  Arthur  to  marry 
such  a  girl  as  this  ?  And  the  tctc-a-tete  of  the  two  gentlemen  was 
broken  up  by  the  entry  of  other  gentlemen,  members  of  the  Club — 
when  fashionable  town-talk,  politics,  cribbage,  and  other  amusements 
ensued,  and  the  conversation  became  general. 

The  Gentleman's  Club  was  held  in  the  parlour  of  the  "  Wheel  of 
Fortune  "  public-house,  in  a  snug  little  by-lane,  leading  out  of  one  of 
the  great  streets  of  Mayfair,  and  frequented  by  some  of  the  most 
select  gentlemen  about  town.  Their  masters'  affairs,  debts,  intrigues, 
adventures ;  their  ladies'  good  and  bad  qualities  and  quarrels  with 
their  husbands  ;  all  the  family  secrets,  were  here  discussed  with  per- 
fect freedom  and  confidence ;  and  here,  when  about  to  enter  into 
a  new  situation,  a  gentleman  was  enabled  to  get  ever}'  requisite 
information  regarding  the  family  of  which  he  proposed  to  become  a 
member.  Liveries,  it  may  be  imagined,  were  excluded  from  this  select 
piecinct ;  and  the  powdered  heads  of  the  largest  metropolitan  foot- 
men might  bow  down  in  vain  entreating  admission  into  the  Gentle- 
man's Club.  These  outcast  giants  in  plush  took  their  beer  in  an 
outer  apartment  of  the  "  W^heel  of  Fortune,"  and  could  no  more  get 
an  entry  into  the  Club-room  than  a  Pall  Mall  tradesman  or  a  Lincoln's 
Inn  attorney  could  get  admission  into  Bays's  or  Spratt's.  And  it 
is  because  the  conversation  which  we  have  been  permitted  to  over- 
hear here,  in  some  measure  explains  the  characters  and  bearings  of 
our  story,  that  we  have  ventured  to  introduce  the  reader  into  a  society 
so  exclusive. 


PENDENNIS.  S97 


CHAPTER   LXI. 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

A  SHORT  time  after  the  piece  of  good  fortune  which  befell  Colonel 
Altamont  at  Epsom,  that  gentleman  put  into  execution  his  pro- 
jected foreign  tour,  and  the  chronicler  of  the  polite  world  who  goes 
down  to  London  Bridge  for  the  purpose  of  taking  leave  of  the  people 
of  fashion  who  quit  this  country,  announced  that  among  the  company 
on  board  the  Soho  to  Antwerp  last  Saturday,  were  "  Sir  Robert,  Lady, 
and  the  Misses  Hodge;  Mr.  Serjeant  Kewsy,  and  :\Irs.  and  Miss 
Kewsy  ;  Colonel  Altamont,  Major  Coddy,"  &c.  The  Colonel  travelled 
in  state,  and  as  became  a  gentleman :  he  appeared  in  a  rich  travelling 
costume ;  he  drank  brandy-and-water  freely  during  the  passage,  and 
was  not  sick,  as  some  of  the  other  passengers  were ;  and  he  was 
attended  by  his  body  ser\'ant,  the  faithful  Irish  legionary  who  had 
been  for  some  time  in  waiting  upon  himself  and  Captain  Strong  in 
their  chambers  of  Shepherd's  Inn. 

The  Chevalier  partook  of  a  copious  dinner  at  Blackwall  with  his 
departing  friend  the  Colonel,  and  one  or  two  others,  who  drank  many 
healths  to  Altamont  at  that  liberal  gentleman's  expense.  "  Strong, 
old  boy,"  the  Chevalier's  worthy  chum  said,  "  if  y^ou  want  a  little 
money,  now's  your  time.  I'm  your  man.  You're  a  good  feller,  and 
have  been  a  good  feller  to  me,  and  a  twenty-pound  note  more  or  less 
will  make  no  odds  to  me."  But  Strong  said,  No,  he  didn't  want  any 
money ;  he  was  flush,  quite  flush — "  that  is,  not  flush  enough  to  pay 
you  back  your  last  loan,  Altamont,  but  quite  able  to  carry  on  for  some 
time  to  come  " — and  so,  with  a  not  uncordial  greeting  between  them, 
the  two  parted.  Had  the  possession  of  money  really  made  Altamont 
more  honest  and  amiable  than  he  had  hitherto  been,  or  only  caused 
him  to  seem  more  amiable  in  Strong's  eyes  ?  Perhaps  he  really  was 
better;  and  money  improved  him.  Perhaps  it  was  the  beauty  of 
wealth  Strong  saw  and  respected.  But  he  argued  within  himself, 
"  This  poor  devil,  this  unlucky  outcast  of  a  returned  convict,  is  ten 
times  as  good  a  fellow  as  my  friend  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Bart.  He 
has  pluck  and  honesty  in  his  way.  He  will  stick  to  a  friend,  and  face 
an  enemy.  The  other  never  had  courage  to  do  either.  And  what  is 
it  that  has  put  the  poor  devil  under  a  cloud .?     He  was  only  a  little 


59S  PENDENXIS. 

wild,  and  signed  his  father-in-law's  name.  Many  a  man  has  done 
woise,  and  come  to  no  wrong,  and  holds  his  head  up.  Clavering  does. 
No,  he  don't  hold  his  head  up :  he  never  did  in  his  best  days."  And 
Strong,  perhaps,  repented  him  of  the  falsehood  which  he  had  told  to 
the  free-handed  Colonel,  that  he  was  not  in  want  of  money;  but  it 
was  a  falsehood  on  the  side  of  honesty,  and  the  Chevalier  could  not 
bring  down  his  stomach  to  borrow  a  second  time  from  his  outlawed 
friend.  Besides,  he  could  get  on.  Clavering  had  promised  him  some  : 
not  that  Claverings  promises  were  much  to  be  believed,  but  the 
Chevalier  was  of  a  hopeful  turn,  and  trusted  in  many  chances  of  catch- 
ing his  patron,  and  waylaying  some  of  those  stray  remittances  and 
supplies,  in  the  procuring  of  which  for  his  principal  lay  ]Mr.  Strong's 
chief  business. 

He  had  grumbled  about  Altamont's  companionship  in  the  Shep- 
herd's Inn  chambers;  but  he  found  those  lodgings  more  glum  now 
without  his  partner  than  with  him.  The  solitarv-  life  was  not  agree- 
able to  his  social  soul ;  and  he  had  got  into  extravagant  and  luxurious 
habits,  too,  having  a  ser^i-ant  at  his  command  to  run  his  errands,  to 
arrange  his  toilettes,  and  to  cook  his  meal.  It  was  rather  a  grand 
and  touching  sight  now  to  see  the  portly  and  handsome  gentleman 
painting  his  own  boots,  and  broiling  his  own  mutton-chop.  It  has 
been  before  stated  that  the  Chevalier  had  a  wife,  a  Spanish  lady  of 
Vittoria,  who  had  gone  back  to  her  friends,  after  a  few  months'  union 
with  the  Captain,  whose  head  she  broke  with  a  dish.  He  began  to 
think  whether  he  should  not  go  back  and  see  his  Juanita.  The 
Chevalier  was  growing  melancholy  after  the  departure  of  his  friend 
the  Colonel ;  or,  to  use  his  own  picturesque  expression,  was  "  down  on 
his  luck.''  These  moments  of  depression  and  inten-als  of  ill-fortune 
oc'cur  constantly  in  the  lives  of  heroes.  Marius  at  Minturnae,  Charles 
Edward  in  the  Highlands,  Napoleon  before  Elba: — what  great  man 
has  not  been  called  upon  to  face  evil  fortune .' 

From  Clavering  no  supphes  were  to  be  had  for  some  time.  The 
five-and-twenty  pounds,  or  "  pony  "  which  the  exemplar)-  Baronet  had 
received  from  Mr.  Altamont,  had  fled  out  of  Clavering's  keeping  as 
swiftly  as  many  previous  ponies.  He  had  been  down  the  river  with  a 
choice  party  of  sporting  gents,  who  dodged  the  police  and  landed  in 
Essex,  where  they  put  up  Billy  Bluckto  fight  Dick  the  cabman,  whom 
the  Baronet  backed,  and  who  had  it  all  his  own  way  for  thirteen 
rounds,  when,  by  an  unlucky  blow  in  the  windpipe,  Billy  killed  him. 
"Ifs  always  my  luck,  Strong,"  Sir  Francis  said;  "the  betting  was 
three  to  one  on  the  cabman,  and  I  thought  myself  as  sure  of  thirty 
pounds,  as  if  I  had  it  in  my  pocket.  And,  dammy,  I  owe  my  man 
Lightfoot  fourteen  pound  now  which  he's  lent  and  paid  for  me :  and  he 
duns  me— the  confounded  impudent  blackguard :  and  I  wish  to  Hea^•en 


PENDENNIS.  599 

I  knew  any  way  of  getting  a  bill  done,  or  of  screwing  a  little  out  of  my 
l.idy !  I'll  give  you  half,  Ned,  upon  my  soul  and  honour,  I'll  give  you 
half  if  you  can  get  anybody  to  do  us  a  little  fifty." 

But  Ned  said  sternly  that  he  had  given  his  word  of  honour,  as  a 
gentleman,  that  he  would  be  no  party  to  any  future  bill-transactions 
in  which  her  husband  might  engage  (who  had  given  his  word  of 
honour  too),  and  the  Chevalier  said  that  he,  at  least,  would  keep  his 
word,  and  would  black  his  own  boots  all  his  life  rather  than  break 
his  promise.  And  what  is  more,  he  vowed  he  would  advise  Lady 
Clavering  that  Sir  Francis  was  about  to  break  his  faith  towards  her, 
upon  the  very  first  hint  which  he  could  get  that  such  was  Clavering's 
intention. 

Upon  this  information  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  according  to  his 
custom,  cried  and  cursed  very  volubly.  He  spoke  of  death  as  his 
only  resource.  He  besought  and  implored  his  dear  Strong,  his  best 
friend,  his  dear  old  Ned,  not  to  throw  him  over :  and  when  he  quitted 
his  dearest  Ned,  as  he  went  down  the  stairs  of  Shepherd's  Inn,  swore 
and  blasphemed  at  Ned  as  the  most  infernal  villain,  and  traitor,  and 
blackguard,  and  coward  under  the  sun,  and  wished  Ned  was  in  his 
grave,  and  in  a  worse  place,  only  he  would  like  the  confounded  ruffian 
to  live,  until  Frank  Clavering  had  had  his  revenge  out  of  him. 

In  Strong's  chambers  the  Baronet  met  a  gentleman  whose  visits 
were  now,  as  it  has  been  shown,  very  frequent  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  Mr. 
Samuel  Huxter,  of  Clavering.  That  young  fellow,  who  had  poached 
the  walnuts  in  Clavering  Park  in  his  youth,  and  had  seen  the  Baronet 
drive  through  the  street  at  home  with  four  horses,  and  prance  up  to 
church  with  powdered  footmen,  had  an  immense  respect  for  his 
Member,  and  a  prodigious  delight  in  making  his  acquaintance.  He 
introduced  himself,  with  much  blushing  and  trepidation,  as  a  Clavering 
man — son  of  Mr.  Huxter,  of  the  market-place — father  attended  Sir 
Francis's  keeper,  Coxwood,  when  his  gun  burst  and  took  off  three 
fingers — proud  to  make  Sir  Francis's  acquaintance.  All  of  which 
introduction  Sir  Francis  received  affably.  And  honest  Huxter  talked 
about  Sir  Francis  to  the  chaps  at  Bartholomew's ;  and  told  Fann)-,  in 
the  Lodge,  that,  after  all,  there  was  nothing  like  a  thorough-bred  'un,  a 
regular  good  old  English  gentleman,  one  of  the  olden  time !  To  which 
Fanny  replied,  that  she  thought  Sir  Francis  was  an  ojous  creature — 
she  didn't  know  why— but  she  couldn't  abear  him — she  was  sure  he 
was  wicked,  and  low  and  mean — she  knew  he  was ;  and  when  Sam  to 
this  replied  that  Sir  Francis  was  very  affable,  and  had  borrowed  half 
a  sov.  of  him  quite  kindly,  Fanny  burst  into  a  laugh,  pulled  Sam's  long 
hair  (which  was  not  yet  of  irreproachable  cleanliness),  patted  his  chin, 
and  called  him  a  stoopid,  stoopid,  old  foolish  stoopid,  and  said  that 
Sir  Francis  was  always  borrering  money  of  everybody,  and  that  Mar 


6oo  PENDENNIS. 

had  actially  refused  him  twice,  and  had  had  to  wait  three  months  to 
j;et  seven  shillings  which  he  had  borrered  of  'er. 

"  Don't  say  'er  but  her,  borrer  but  borrow,  actially  but  actually, 
Fanny,"'  Mr.  Huxter  replied — not  to  a  fault  in  her  argument,  but  to 
grammatical  errors  in  her  statement. 

"  Well  then,  her,  and  borrow,  and  hactually — there  then,  you 
stoopid,"  said  the  other;  and  the  scholar  made  such  a  pretty  face  that 
the  grammar-master  was  quickly  appeased,  and  would  have  willingly 
given  her  a  hundred  more  lessons  on  the  spot,  at  the  price  which  he 
took  for  that  one. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Bolton  was  by,  and  I  suppose  that  Fanny  and 
Mr.  Sam  were  on  exceedingly  familiar  and  confidential  terms  by  this 
time,  and  that  time  had  brought  to  the  former  certain  consolations, 
and  soothed  certain  regrets,  which  are  deucedly  bitter  when  they 
occur,  but  which  are,  no  more  than  tooth-pulling,  or  any  ether  pang, 
eternal. 

As  you  sit,  surrounded  by  respect  and  affection ;  happy,  honoured, 
and  flattered  in  your  old  age ;  your  foibles  gently  indulged ;  your  lea.st 
words  kindly  cherished ;  your  garrulous  old  stories  received  for  the 
hundredth  time  with  dutiful  forbearance,  and  never-failing  hypocritical 
smiles ;  the  women  of  your  house  constant  in  their  flatteries ;  the 
young  men  hushed  and  attentive  when  you  begin  to  speak;  the 
servants  awe-stricken;  the  tenants  cap  in  hand,  and  ready  to  act  in 
the  place  of  your  worship's  horses  when  your  honour  takes  a  drive — 
it  has  often  struck  you,  O  thoughtful  Dives!  that  this  respect,  and 
these  glories,  are  for  the  main  part  transferred,  with  your  fee-simple,  to 
your  successor— that  the  sen-ants  will  bow,  and  the  tenants  shout,  for 
your  son  as  for  you;  that  the  butler  will  fetch  him  the  wine  (improved 
by  a  little  keeping)  that's  now  in  your  cellar;  and  that,  when  your 
night  is  come,  and  the  light  of  your  life  is  gone  down,  as  sure  as  the 
morning  rises  after  you  and  without  you,  the  sun  of  prosperity  and 
flattery  shines  on  your  heir.  Men  come  and  bask  in  the  halo  of  consols 
and  acres  that  beams  round  about  him :  the  reverence  is  transferred 
with  the  estate ;  of  which,  with  all  its  advantages,  pleasures,  respect, 
and  good-will,  he  in  turn  becomes  the  life-tenant.  How  long  do  vou 
wish  or  expect  that  your  people  wiU  regret  you  ?  How  much  time 
does  a  man  devote  to  grief  before  he  begins  to  enjoy  ?  A  great  man 
must  keep  his  heir  at  his  feast  like  a  living  me??tettfo  viori.  If  he  holds 
ver)'  much  by  life,  the  presence  of  the  other  must  be  a  constant  sting 
and  warning.  "  Make  ready  to  go,"  says  the  successor  to  vour  honour  ; 
I  am  waitmg :  and  I  could  hold  it  as  well  as  you." 

What  has  this  reference  to  the  possible  reader,  to  do  with  any  of 
the  characters  of  this  historj^  ?     Do  we  wish  to   apologise  for  Pen 


PENDENNIS.  60  r 

because  he  has  got  a  white  hat,  and  because  his  mourning  for  his 
mother  is  fainter  ?  All  the  lapse  of  years,  all  the  career  of  fortune,  all 
the  events  of  life,  however  strongly  they  may  move  or  eagerly  excite 
him,  never  can  remove  that  sainted  image  from  his  heart,  or  banish 
that  blessed  love  from  its  sanctuary.  If  he  yields  to  wrong,  the  dear 
eyes  will  look  sadly  upon  him  when  he  dares  to  meet  them;  if  he  does 
well,  endures  pain,  or  conquers  temptation,  the  ever-present  love  will 
greet  him,  he  knows,  with  approval  and  pity;  if  he  falls,  plead  for 
him ;  if  he  suffers,  cheer  him ; — be  with  him  and  accompany  him 
always  until  death  is  past,  and  sorrow  and  sin  are  no  more.  Is  this 
mere  dreaming,  or,  on  the  part  of  an  idle  story-teller,  useless  moralis- 
ing? May  not  the  man  of  the  world  take  his  moment,  too,  to  be 
grave  and  thoughtful .''  Ask  of  your  own  hearts  and  memories,  brother 
and  sister,  if  we  do  not  live  in  the  dead ;  and  (to  speak  reverently) 
prove  God  by  love  ? 

Of  these  matters  Pen  and  Warrington  often  spoke  in  many  a 
solemn  and  friendly  converse  in  after  days ;  and  Pendennis's  mother 
was  worshipped  in  his  memory,  and  canonised  there,  as  such  a  saint 
ought  to  be.  Lucky  he  in  life  who  knows  a  few  such  women !  A 
kind  provision  of  Heaven  it  was  that  sent  us  such ;  and  gave  us  to 
admire  that  touching  and  wonderful  spectacle  of  innocence,  and  love, 
and  beauty. 

But  as  it  is  certain  that  if,  in  the  course  of  these  sentimental  con- 
versations, any  outer  stranger,  Major  Pendennis  for  instance,  had 
walked  into  Pen's  chambers,  Arthur  and  Warrington  would  have 
stopped  their  talk,  and  chosen  another  subject,  and  discoursed  about 
the  Opera,  or  the  la^  debate  in  Parliament,  or  Miss  Jones's  marriage 
with  Captain  Smith,  or  what  not, — so,  let  us  imagine  that  the  public 
steps  in  at  this  juncture,  and  stops  the  confidential  talk  between 
author  and  reader,  and  begs  us  to  resume  our  remarks  about  this 
world,  with  which  both  are  certainly  better  acquainted  than  with  that 
other  one  into  which  we  have  just  been  peeping. 

On  coming  into  his  property,  Arthur  Pendennis  at  first  comported 
himself  with  a  modesty  and  equanimity  which  obtained  his  friend 
Warrington's  praises,  though  Arthur's  uncle  was  a  little  inclined  to 
quarrel  with  his  nephews  meanness  of  spirit,  for  not  assuming  greater 
state  and  pretensions  now  that  he  had  entered  on  the  enjoyment  of 
his  kingdom.  He  would  have  had  Arthur  installed  in  handsome 
quarters,  and  riding  on  showy  park  hacks,  or  in  well-built  cabriolets^ 
every  day.  "  I  am  too  absent,"  Arthur  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  to  drive 
a  cab  in  London ;  the  omnibuses  would  cut  me  in  two,  or  I  should 
send  my  horse's  head  into  the  ladies'  carriage-windows ;  and  you 
wouldn't  have  me  driven  about  by  my  servant  like  an  apothecary, 
uncle  ?"     No,  Major  Pendennis  would  on  no  account  have  his  nephew 

^  A  -9  Qcr 


6o2  PENDENNIS. 

appear  like  an  apothecary ;  the  august  representative  of  the  house  of 
Pendennis  must  not  so  demean  himself.  And  v/hen  Arthur,  pursuing 
his  banter,  said,  "And  yet,  I  dare  say,  sir,  my  father  was  proud  enough 
when  he  first  set  up  his  gig,"  the  old  Major  hemmed  and  ha'd,  and  his 
\vrinkled  face  reddened  with  a  blush  as  he  answered,  "  You  know 
what  Bonaparte  said,  sir,  '  //  faui  laver  son  linge  sale  en  fa7tiille.* 
There  is  no  need,  sir,  for  you  to  brag  that  your  father  was  a — a 
medical  man.  He  came  of  a  most  ancient  but  fallen  house,  and  was 
obliged  to  reconstruct  the  family  fortunes,  as  many  a  man  of  good 
family  has  done  before  him.  You  are  like  the  fellow  in  Sterne,  sir — 
the  Marquis  who  came  to  demand  his  sword  again.  Your  father  got 
back  yours  for  you.  You  are  a  man  of  landed  estate,  by  Gad,  sir,  and 
a  gentleman — never  forget  you  are  a  gentleman." 

Then  Arthur  slily  turned  on  his  uncle  the  argument  which  lie 
had  heard  the  old  gentleman  often  use  regarding  himself.  "  In  the 
society  which  I  have  the  honour  of  frequenting  through  your  intro- 
duction, who  cares  to  ask  about  my  paltry  means  or  my  humble  gen- 
tility, uncle  ?"  he  asked.  "It  would  be  absurd  of  me  to  attempt  to 
compete  with  the  great  folks ;  and  all  that  they  can  ask  from  us  is, 
that  we  should  have  a  decent  address  and  good  manners." 

"  But  for  all  that,  sir,  I  should  belong  to  a  better  Club  or  two," 
the  uncle  answered :  "  I  should  give  an  occasional  dinner,  and  select 
my  society  well;  and  I  should  come  out  of  that  horrible  garret  in  the 
Temple,  sir."  And  so  Arthur  compromised,  by  descending  lo  the 
second  floor  in  Lamb  Court:  Warrington  still  occupying  his  old 
quarters,  and  the  two  friends  being  determined  not  to  part  one  from 
the  other.  Cultivate,  kindly  reader,  those  friendships  of  \our  youth: 
it  is  only  in  that  generous  time  that  they  are  formed.  How  different 
the  intimacies  of  after  days  are,  and  how  much  weaker  the  grasp  of 
your  own  hand  after  it  has  been  shaken  about  in  twenty  years'  com- 
merce with  the  world,  and  has  squeezed  and  dropped  a  thousand 
equally  careless  palms !  As  you  can  seldom  fashion  your  tongue  to 
speak  a  new  language  after  twenty,  the  heart  refuses  to  receive  friend- 
ship pretty  scon:  it  gets  too  hard  to  yield  to  the  impression. 

So  Pen  had  many  acquaintances,  and  being  of  a  jovial  and  easy 
turn,  got  more  daily:  but  no  friend  like  Warrington;  and  the  two 
men  continued  to  live  almost  as  much  in  common  as  the  Knights  of 
the  Temple,  riding  upon  one  horse  (for  Pen's  was  at  Warrington's  ser- 
vice), and  having  their  chambers  and  their  ser\-itor  in  common. 

Mr.  Warrington  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  Pen's  friends  of 

Cxrosvenor  Place   during  their  last  unlucky  season  in  London,  and 

had  expressed  himself  no  better  satisfied  with  Sir  Francis  and  Lady 

Clavenng  and  her  ladyship's  daughter  than  was  the  public  in  general. 

The  world  is  right,"  George  said,  "  about  those  people.     The  youn- 


PENDENNTS.  603 

men  laugh  and  talk  freely  before  those  ladies,  and  about  them.  The 
gfirl  sees  people  whom  she  has  no  right  to  know,  and  talks  to  men 
with  whom  no  girl  should  have  an  intimacy.  Did  you  see  those  two 
reprobates  leaning  over  Lady  Clavering's  carriage  in  the  Park  the 
other  day,  and  leering  under  Miss  Blanche's  bonnet  ?  No  good 
mother  would  let  her  daughter  know  those  men,  or  admit  them  within 
her  doors." 

"  The  Begum  is  the  most  innocent  and  good-natured  soul  alive," 
interposed  Pen.  "  She  never  heard  any  harm  of  Captain  Blackball, 
or  read  that  trial  in  which  Charley  Lovelace  figures.  Do  you  suppose 
that  honest  ladies  read  and  remember  the  Chronique  Scandaleuse  as 
well  as  you,  you  old  grumbler.'"' 

"  Would  you  like  Laura  Bell  to  know  those  fellows  ? "  Warrington 
asked,  his  face  turning  rather  red.  "  Would  you  let  any  woman  you 
loved  be  contaminated  by  their  company  1  I  have  no  doubt  that  the 
poor  Begum  is  ignorant  of  their  histories.  It  seems  to  me  she  is  igno- 
rant of  a  great  number  of  better  things.  It  seems  to  me  that  your 
honest  Begum  is  not  a  lady,  Pen.  It  is  not  her  fault,  doubtless,  that 
she  has  not  had  the  education  or  learned  the  refinements  of  a  lady." 

"  She  is  as  moral  as  Lady  Portsea,  who  has  all  the  world  at  her 
balls,  and  as  refined  as  Mrs.  Bull,  who  breaks  the  King's  English,  and 
has  half-a-dozen  dukes  at  her  table,"  Pen  answered,  rather  sulkily. 
"  Why  should  you  and  I  be  more  squeamish  than  the  rest  of  the  world  ? 
Why  are  we  to  visit  the  sins  of  her  fathers  on  this  harmless  kind 
creature  .?  She  never  did  anything  but  kindness  to  you  or  any  mortal 
soul.  As  far  as  she  knows,  she  does  her  best.  She  does  not  set  up  to 
be  more  than  she  is.  She  gives  you  the  best  dinners  she  can  buy,  and 
the  best  company  she  can  get.  She  pays  the  debts  of  that  scamp  of  a 
husband  of  hers.  She  spoils  her  boy  like  the  most  virtuous  mother  in 
England.  Her  opinion  about  literary  matters,  to  be  sure,  is  not  worth 
much ;  and  I  daresay  she  never  read  a  line  of  Wordsworth,  or  heard 
of  Tennyson  in  her  life." 

"  No  more  has  Mrs.  Flanagan  the  laundress,"  growled  out  Pen's 
Mentor ;  "  no  more  has  Betty  the  housemaid ;  and  I  have  no  word  of 
blame  against  them.  But  a  high-souled  man  doesn't  make  friends  of 
these.  A  gentleman  doesn't  choose  these  for  his  companions,  or 
bitterly  rues  it  afterwards  if  he  do.  Are  you,  who  are  setting  up  to  be 
a  man  of  the  world  and  a  philosopher,  to  tell  me  that  the  aim  of  life  is 
to  guttle  three  courses  and  dine  off  silver  ?  Do  you  dare  to  own  to 
yourself  that  your  ambition  in  life  is  good  claret,  and  that  you'll  dine 
v.'ith  any,  provided  you  get  a  stalled  ox  to  feed  on  ?  You  call  me  a 
Cynic — why,  what  a  monstrous  Cynicism  it  is,  which  you  and  the  rest 
of  you  men  of  the  world  admit.  I'd  rather  live  upon  raw  turnips  and 
sleep  in  a  hollow  tree,  or  turn  backwoodsman  or  savage,  than  degrade 


6o4  PENDENNIS. 

myself  to  this  civilisation,  and  own  that  a  French  cook  was  the  thing 
in  life  best  worth  living  for." 

"  Because  you  like  a  raw  beef-steak  and  a  pipe  afterwards,"'  broke 
out  Pen,  "  you  give  yourself  airs  of  superiority  over  people  whose  tastes 
are  more  dainty,  and  are  not  ashamed  of  the  world  they  live  in.  Who 
goes  about  professing  particular  admiration,  or  esteem,  or  friendship, 
or  gratitude  even,  for  the  people  one  meets  every  day  ?  If  A.  asks  me 
to  his  house,  and  gives  me  his  best,  I  take  his  good  things  for  what 
they  are  worth  and  no  more.  I  do  not  profess  to  pay  him  back  in 
friendship,  but  in  the  conventional  money  of  society.  When  we  part, 
we  part  without  any  grief.  When  we  meet,  we  are  tolerably  glad  to 
see  one  another.  If  I  were  only  to  live  with  my  friends,  your  black 
muzzle,  old  George,  is  the  only  face  I  should  see."' 

"  You  are  your  uncle's  pupil,"  said  Warrington,  rather  sadly  ;  "  and 
you  speak  like  a  worldling." 

"And  why  not.''"  asked  Pendennis ;  "why  not  acknowledge  the 
world  I  stand  upon,  and  submit  to  the  conditions  of  the  society  which 
we  live  in  and  live  by  ?  I  am  older  than  you,  George,  in  spite  of  your 
grizzled  whiskers,  and  have  seen  much  more  of  the  world  than  you 
have  in  your  garret  here,  shut  up  with  your  books  and  your  reveries 
and  your  ideas  of  one-and-twenty.  I  say,  I  take  the  world  as  it  is. 
and  being  of  it,  will  not  be  ashamed  of  it.  If  the  time  is  out  of  joint, 
have  I  any  calling  or  strength  to  set  it  right  ? " 

"  Indeed,  I  don't  think  you  have  much  of  either,"  growled  Pen's 
interlocutor. 

"  If  I  doubt  whether  I  am  better  than  my  neighbour,'"  Arthur  con- 
tinued,—" if  I  concede  that  I  am  no  better,  I  also  doubt  whether  he  is 
better  than  I.  I  see  men  who  begin  with  ideas  of  universal  reform, 
and  who,  before  their  beards  are  grown,  propound  their  loud  plans  for 
the  regeneration  of  mankind,  give  up  their  schemes  after  a  few  years 
of  bootless  talking  and  vainglorious  attempts  to  lead  their  fellows ;  and 
after  they  have  found  that  men  will  no  longer  hear  them,  as  indeed 
they  never  were  in  the  least  worthy  to  be  heard,  sink  quietly  into  the 
rank  and  file,— acknowledging  their  aims  impracticable,  or  thankful 
that  they  were  never  put  into  practice.  The  fiercest  reformers  grow 
calm,  and  are  fain  to  put  up  with  things  as  they  are:  the  loudest 
Radical  orators  become  dumb,  quiescent  placemen  :  the  most  fervent 
Liberals,  when  out  of  power,  become  humdrum  Conservatives,  or 
downright  tyrants  or  despots  in  office.  Look  at  Thiers,  look  at  Guizot, 
m  opposition  and  in  place!  Look  at  the  Whigs  appealing  to  the 
country,  and  the  Whigs  in  power !  Would  you  say  that  the  conduct 
of  these  men  is  an  act  of  treason,  as  the  Radicals  bawl,— who  would 
give  way  m  their  turn,  were  their  turn  ever  to  come  ?  No.  onlv  that 
they  submit  to  circumstances  which  are  stronger  than  thev,— march 


PENDEmWMS.  605 

as  the  world  marches  towards  reform,  but  at  the  world's  pace,  (and 
the  movements  of  the  vast  body  of  mankind  must  needs  be  slow,) — 
forego  this  scheme  as  impracticable,  on  account  of  opposition, — that 
as  immature,  because  against  the  sense  of  the  majority, — are  forced 
to  calculate  drawbacks  and  difficulties,  as  well  as  to  think  of  reforms 
and  advances, — and  compelled  finally  to  submit,  and  to  wait,  and 
to  compromise." 

'•The  Right  Honourable  Arthur  Pendennis  could  not  speak  better, 
or  be  more  satisfied  with  himself,  if  he  was  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury 
and  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,"  Warrington  said. 

"Self-satisfied?  Why  self-satisfied .-' "  continued  Pen.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  my  scepticism  is  more  respectful  and  more  modest  than 
the  revolutionary  ardour  of  other  folks.  Many  a  patriot  of  eighteen, 
many  a  Spouting-Club  orator,  would  turn  the  Bishops  out  of  the  House 
of  Lords  to-morrow,  and  throw  the  Lords  out  after  the  Bishops,  and 
throw  the  Throne  into  the  Thames  after  the  Peers  and  the  Bench.  Is 
that  man  more  modest  than  I,  who  take  these  institutions  as  I  find 
them,  and  wait  for  time  and  truth  to  develop,  or  fortify,  or  (if  you  like) 
destroy  them?  A  college  tutor,  or  a  nobleman's  toady,  who  appears 
one  fine  day  as  my  right  reverend  lord,  in  a  silk  apron  and  a  shovel- 
hat,  and  assumes  benedictory  airs  over  me,  is  still  the  same  man  we 
remember  at  Oxbridge,  when  he  was  truckling  to  the  tufts,  and  bully- 
ing the  poor  undergraduates  in  the  lecture-room.  An  hereditary  legis- 
lator, who  passes  his  time  with  jockeys  and  black-legs  and  ballet-girls, 
and  who  is  called  to  rule  over  me  and  his  other  betters  because  his 
grandfather  made  a  lucky  speculation  in  the  funds,  or  found  a  coal  or 
tin  mine  on  his  property,  or  because  his  stupid  ancestor  happened  to 
be  in  command  of  ten  thousand  men  as  brave  as  himself,  who  over- 
came twelve  thousand  Frenchmen,  or  fifty  thousand  Indians — such  a 
man,  I  say,  inspires  me  with  no  more  respect  than  the  bitterest  demo- 
crat can  feel  towards  him.  But,  such  as  he  is,  he  is  a  part  of  the  old 
society  to  which  we  belong :  and  I  submit  to  his  lordship  with  acqui- 
escence; and  he  takes  his  place  above  the  best  of  us  at  all  dinner- 
parties, and  there  bides  his  time.  I  don't  want  to  chop  his  head  off 
■with  a  guillotine,  or  to  fling  mud  at  him  in  the  streets.  When  they  call 
such  a  man  a  disgrace  to  his  order ;  and  such  another,  who  is  good 
and  gentle,  refined  and  generous,  who  employs  his  great  means  in 
promoting  every  kindness  and  charity,  and  art  and  grace  of  life,  in 
the  kindest  and  most  gracious  manner,  an  ornament  to  his  rank — the 
question  as  to  the  use  and  propriety  of  the  order  is  not  in  the  least 
affected  one  way  or  other.  There  it  is,  extant  among  us,  a  part  of  our 
habits,  the  creed  of  many  of  us,  the  growth  of  centuries,  the  symbol  of 
a  most  complicated  tradition — there  stand  my  lord  the  bishop  and  my 
lord  the  hereditary  legislator — what  the  French  call  traiisactions  both 


5o6  PENDENNJS. 

of  them,— representing  in  their  present  shape  mail-clad  barons  and 
double-sworded  chiefs,  (from  whom  their  lordships  the  hereditaries 
for  the  most  part  don't  descend,)  and  priests,  professing  to  hold  an 
absolute  truth  and  a  divinely  inherited  power,  the  which  truth  absolute 
our  ancestors  burned  at  the  stake,  and  denied  there ;  the  which  divine 
transmissible  power  still  exists  in  print — to  be  believed,  or  not,  pretty 
much  at  choice ;  and  of  these,  I  say,  I  acquiesce  that  they  exist,  and 
no  more.  If  you  say  that  these  schemes,  devised  before  printing  was 
known,  or  steam  was  born ;  when  thought  was  an  infant,  scared  and 
v.hipped;  and  truth  under  its  guardians  was  gagged,  and  swathed, 
and  bUndfolded,  and  not  allowed  to  lift  its  voice,  or  to  look  out,  or  to 
Avalk  under  the  sun ;  before  men  were  permitted  to  meet,  or  to  trade, 
or  to  speak  with  each  other — if  any  one  says  (as  some  faithful  souls 
do)  that  these  schemes  are  for  ever,  and  having  been  changed  and 
modified  constantly  are  to  be  subject  to  no  farther  development  or 
decay,  I  laugh,  and  let  the  man  speak.  But  I  would  have  toleration 
for  these,  as  I  would  ask  it  for  my  own  opinions ;  and  if  they  are  to 
die,  I  would  rather  they  had  a  decent  and  natural  than  an  abrupt  and 
violent  death." 

"  You  v.-ould  have  sacrificed  to  Jove,"  Warrington  said,  '''  had  you 
lived  in  the  time  of  the  Christian  persecutions." 

"  Perhaps  I  would,"  said  Pen,  with  some  sadness.  '*  Perhaps  I  am 
a  coward, — perhaps  my  faith  is  unsteady ;  but  this  is  my  own  reserve. 
What  I  argue  here  is,  that  I  will  not  persecute.  Make  a  faith  or  a 
dogma  absolute,  and  persecution  becomes  a  logical  consequence ;  and 
Dominic  bums  a  Jew.  or  Calvin  an  Arian,  or  Nero  a  Christian,  or 
Elizabeth  or  Mary  a  Papist  or  Protestant;  or  their  father  both  or 
either,  according  to  his  humour;  and  acting  without  any  pangs  of 
remorse, — but  on  the  contrary,  with  strict  notions  of  duty  fulfilled. 
Make  dogma  absolute,  and  to  inflict  or  to  suffer  death  becomes  easy 
and  necessary ;  and  Mahomet's  soldiers  shouting '  Paradise !  Paradise  .'" 
and  dying  on  the  Christian  spears,  are  not  more  or  less  praiseworthy 
than  the  same  men  slaughtering  a  townful  of  Jews,  or  cutting  off  the 
heads  of  all  prisoners  who  would  not  acknowledge  that  there  was  but 
one  Prophet  of  God." 

"  A  little  while  since,  young  one,"  Wanington  said,  who  had  been 
listening  to  his  friend's  confessions  neither  without  sympathy  nor 
scorn,  for  his  mood  led  him  to  indulge  in  both,  "  you  asked  me  why 
I  remained  out  of  the  strife  of  the  world,  and  looked  on  at  the  great 
labour  of  my  neighbour  without  taking  any  part  in  the  struggle  ? 
"Why,  what  a  mere  dilettante  you  own  yourself  to  be,  in  this  confession 
of  general  scepticism,  and  what  a  listless  spectator  yourself !  You 
are  six-and-twenty  years  old,  and  as  l^lase  as  a  rake  of  sixty.  You 
neither  hope  much,  nor  care  much,  nor  believe  much.     You  doubt 


PENDENNIS.  607 

about  other  men  as  much  as  about  yourself.  Were  it  made  of  such 
pococitranti  as  you,  the  world  would  be  intolerable  ;  and  I  had  rather 
live  in  a  wilderness  of  monkeys,  and  listen  to  their  chatter,  than  in 
a  company  of  men  who  denied  everything." 

"  Were  the  world  composed  of  Saint  Bernards  or  Saint  Dominies, 
it  would  be  equally  odious,"  said  Pen,  "  and  at  the  end  of  a  few  score 
years  would  cease  to  exist  altogether.  Would  you  have  every  man 
with  his  head  shaved,  and  every  woman  in  a  cloister,^carrj^ing  out 
to  the  full  the  ascetic  principle  ?  Would  you  have  conventicle  hymns 
twanging  from  every  lane  in  every  city  in  the  world?  Would  you 
have  all  the  birds  of  the  forest  sing  one  note  and  fly  with  one  feather  ? 
You  call  me  a  sceptic  because  I  acknowledge  what  is;  and  in 
acknowledging  that,  be  it  linnet  or  lark,  or  priest  or  parson ;  be  it, 
I  mean,  any  single  one  of  the  infinite  varieties  of  the  creatures  of  God 
(whose  very  name  I  would  be  understood  to  pronounce  with  reverence, 
and  never  to  approach  but  with  distant  awe),  I  say  that  the  study  and 
acknowledgment  of  that  variety  amongst  men  especially  increases 
our  respect  and  wonder  for  the  Creator,  Commander,  and  Ordainer 
of  all  these  minds,  so  different  and  yet  so  united, — meeting  in  a 
common  adoration,  and  offering  up,  each  according  to  his  degree 
and  means  of  approaching  the  Divine  centre,  his  acknowledgment 
of  praise  and  worship,  each  singing  (to  recur  to  the  bird  simile)  his 
natural  song." 

"  And  so,  Arthur,  the  hymn  of  a  saint,  or  the  ode  of  a  poet,  or 
the  chant  of  a  Newgate  thief,  are  all  pretty  much  the  same  in  your 
philosophy,"  said  George. 

"  Even  that  sneer  could  be  answered  were  it  to  the  point,"  Pen- 
dennis  replied  ;  "  but  it  is  not  ;  and  it  could  be  replied  to  you,  that 
even  to  the  wretched  outcry  of  the  thief  on  the  tree,  the  wisest  and 
the  best  of  all  teachers  we  know  of,  the  untiring  Comforter  and 
Consoler,  promised  a  pitiful  hearing  and  a  certain  hope.  Hymns  of 
saints  !  Odes  of  poets  !  who  are  we  to  measure  the  chances  and  op- 
portunities, the  means  of  doing,  or  even  judging,  right  and  wrong, 
awarded  to  men  ;  and  to  establish  the  rule  for  meting  out  their 
punishments  and  rewards  ?  We  are  as  insolent  and  unthinking  in 
judging  of  men's  morals  as  of  their  intellects.  We  admire  this  man 
as  being  a  great  philosopher,  and  set  down  the  other  as  a  dullard,  not 
knowing  either,  or  the  amount  of  truth  in  either,  or  being  certain  of 
the  truth  anywhere.  We  sing  Te  Deum  for  this  hero  who  has  won 
a  battle,  and  De  Profundis  for  that  other  one  who  has  broken  out 
of  prison,  and  has  been  caught  afterwards  by  the  policeman.  Our 
measure  of  rewards  and  punishments  is  most  partial  and  incomplete, 
absurdly  inadequate,  utterly  worldly,  and  we  wish  to  continue  it  into 
the  next  world.     Into  that  next  and  awful  vi'orld  we  strive  to  pursue 


6o8  PENDENNIS. 

men,  and  send  after  them  our  impotent  party  verdicts  of  condemna- 
tion'or  acquittal.  We  set  up  our  paltry  little  rods  to  measure  Heaven 
immeasurable,  as  if,  in  comparison  to  that,  Newton's  mind,  or  Pascal's 
or  Shakspeare's,  was  any  loftier  than  mine  ;  as  if  the  ray  which  travels 
from  the  sun  would  reach  me  sooner  than  the  man  who  blacks  my 
boots.  Measured  by  that  altitude,  the  tallest  and  the  smallest  among 
us  are  so  alike  diminutive  and  pitifully  base,  that  I  say  we  should 
take  no  count  of  the  calculation,  and  it  is  a  meanness  to  reckon  the 
difference." 

"  Your  figure  fails  there,  Arthur,"  said  the  other,  better  pleased  ; 
'•  if  even  by  common  arithmetic  we  can  multiply  as  we  can  reduce 
almost  infinitely,  the  Great  Reckoner  must  take  count  of  all ;  and  the 
small  is  not  small,  or  the  great  great,  to  his  infinity." 

'■'  I  don't  call  those  calculations  in  question,"  Arthur  said  ;  "  I  only 
say  that  yours  are  incomplete  and  premature  ;  false  in  consequence, 
and,  by  every  operation,  multiplying  into  wider  error.  I  do  not  con- 
demn the  men  who  killed  Socrates  and  damned  Galileo.  I  say  that 
they  damned  Galileo  and  killed  Socrates." 

"And  yet  but  a  moment  since  you  admitted  the  propriety  of 
acquiescence  in  the  present,  and,  I  suppose,  all  other  tyrannies  ?" 

"  No  :  but  that  if  an  opponent  menaces  me,  of  whom  and  without 
cost  of  blood  and  violence  I  can  get  rid,  I  would  rather  wait  him  out, 
and  starve  him  out,  than  fight  him  out.  Fabius  fought  Hannibal 
sceptically.  Who  was  his  Roman  coadjutor,  whom  we  read  of  in 
Plutarch  when  we  were  boys,  who  scoffed  at  the  other's  procrastina- 
tion and  doubted  his  courage,  and  engaged  the  enemy  and  was  beaten 
for  his  pains  ? " 

In  these  speculations  and  confessions  of  Arthur,  the  reader  may 
perhaps  see  allusions  to  questions  which,  no  doubt,  have  occupied 
and  discomposed  himself,  and  which  he  may  have  answered  by  ver>- 
different  solutions  to  those  come  to  by  our  friend.  We  are  not 
pledging  ourselves  for  the  correctness  of  his  opinions,  which  readers 
will  please  to  consider  are  delivered  dramatically,  the  writer  being  no 
more  answerable  for  them  than  for  the  sentiments  uttered  by  any 
other  character  of  the  story :  our  endeavour  is  merely  to  follow  out,  in 
its  progress,  the  development  of  the  mind  of  a  worldly  and  selfish, 
but  not  ungenerous  or  unkind  or  truth-avoiding  man.  And  it  will  be 
seen  that  the  lamentable  stage  to  which  his  logic  at  present  has 
brought  him,  is  one  of  general  scepticism  and  sneering  acquiescence 
in  the  world  as  it  is :  or  if  you  like  so  to  call  it,  a  belief  qualified  with 
scorn  in  all  things  extant.  The  tastes  and  habits  of  such  a  man 
prevent  him  from  being  a  boisterous  demagogue,  and  his  love  of  truth 
and  dislike  of  cant  keep  him  from  advancing  crude  propositions,  such 


PENDENNIS.  609 

as  many  loud  reformers  are  constantly  ready  with ;  much  more  from 
uttering  downright  falsehoods  in  arguing  questions  or  abusing  oppo- 
nents, which  he  would  die  or  starve  rather  than  use.  It  was  not  in  our 
friend's  nature  to  be  able  to  utter  certain  lies ;  nor  was  he  strong 
enough  to  protest  against  others,  except  with  a  polite  sneer;  his 
maxim  being,  that  he  owed  obedience  to  all  Acts  of  Parliament,  as 
long  as  they  were  not  repealed. 

And  to  what  does  this  easy  and  sceptical  life  lead  a  man  ?  Friend 
Arthur  was  a  Sadducee,  and  the  Baptist  might  be  in  the  Wilderness 
shouting  to  the  poor,  who  were  listening  with  all  their  might  and  faith 
to  the  preacher's  awful  accents  and  denunciations  of  wrath  or  woe  or 
salvation  ;  and  our  friend  the  Sadducee  would  turn  his  sleek  mule 
with  a  shrug  and  a  smile  from  the  crowd,  and  go  home  to  the  shade 
of  his  terrace,  and  muse  over  preacher  and  audience,  and  turn  to  hi^ 
roll  of  Plato,  or  his  pleasant  Greek  song-book  babbling  of  honey  and 
Hybla,  and  nymphs  and  fountains  and  love.  To  what,  we  say,  does 
this  scepticism  lead  }  It  leads  a  man  to  a  shameful  loneliness  and 
selfishness,  so  to  speak — the  more  shameful,  because  it  is  so  good- 
humoured  and  conscienceless  and  serene.  Conscience !  What  is 
conscience  ?  Why  accept  remorse  ?  What  is  public  or  private  faith  ? 
Mythuses  alike  enveloped  in  enormous  tradition.  If  seeing  and 
acknowledging  the  lies  of  the  world,  Arthur,  as  see  them  you  can 
with  only  too  fatal  a  clearness,  you  submit  to  them  without  any  pro- 
test farther  than  a  laugh ;  if,  plunged  yourself  in  easy  sensuality,  you 
allow  the  whole  wretched  world  to  pass  groaning  by  you  unmoved :  if 
the  fight  for  the  truth  is  taking  place,  and  all  men  of  honour  are  on 
the  ground  armed  on  the  one  side  or  the  other,  and  you  alone  are  to 
lie  on  your  balcony  and  smoke  your  pipe  out  of  the  noise  and  the 
danger,  you  had  better  have  died,  or  never  have  been  at  all,  than  such 
a  sensual  coward. 

"The  truth,  friend!"  Arthur  said,  imperturbably ;  "where  is  the 
truth  ?  Show  it  me.  That  is  the  question  between  us.  I  see  it  on 
both  sides.  I  see  it  on  the  Conservative  side  of  the  House,  and 
amongst  the  Radicals,  and  even  on  the  ministerial  benches.  I  see 
it  in  this  man  who  worships  by  Act  of  Parliament,  and  is  rewarded 
with  a  silk  apron  and  five  thousand  a-year ;  in  that  man,  M'ho,  driven 
fatally  by  the  remorseless  logic  of  his  creed,  gives  up  everj'thing, 
friends,  fame,  dearest  ties,  closest  vanities,  the  respect  of  an  army 
of  churchmen,  the  recognised  position  of  a  leader,  and  passes  over, 
truth-impelled,  to  the  enemy,  in  whose  ranks  he  is  ready  to  serve 
henceforth  as  a  nameless  private  soldier: — I  see  the  truth  in  that 
man,  as  I  do  in  his  brother,  whose  logic  drives  him  to  quite  a 
different  conclusion,  and  who,  after  having  passed  a  life  in  vain 
endeavours  to  reconcile  an  irreconcilable  book,  flings  it  at  last  down 

39 


6io  PE:YDEA\\7S. 

in  despair,  and  declares,  with  tearful  eyes,  and  hands  up  to  Heaven, 
his  revolt  and  recantation.  If  the  truth  is  with  all  these,  why  should 
I  take  side  with  any  one  of  them  ?  Some  are  called  upon  to  preach  : 
kt  them  preach.  Of  these  preachers  there  are  somewhat  too  many, 
methinks,  who  fancy  they  have  the  gift.  But  we  cannot  all  be  parsons 
in  church,  that  is  clear.  Some  must  sit  silent  and  hsten,  or  go  to 
sleep  mayhap.  Have  we  not  all  our  duties  ?  The  head  charity-boy 
blows  the  bellows ;  the  master  canes  the  other  boys  in  the  organ-loft ; 
the  clerk  sings  out  Amen  from  the  desk;  and  the  beadle  with  the 
staff  opens  the  door  for  his  Reverence,  who  rustles  in  silk  up  to 
the  cushion.  I  won't  cane  the  boys,  nay,  or  say  Amen  always,  or  act 
as  the  church's  champion  or  warrior,  in  the  shape  of  the  beadle  with 
the  staff;  but  I  will  take  off  my  hat  in  the  place,  and  say  my  prayers 
there  too,  and  shake  hands  with  the  clergyman  as  he  steps  on  the 
grass  outside.  Don't  I  know  that  his  being  there  is  a  compromise, 
and  that  he  stands  before  me  an  Act  of  Parliament  ?  That  the  church 
he  occupies  was  built  for  other  worship  .''  That  the  Methodist  chapel 
is  next  door ;  and  that  Bunyan  the  tinker  is  bawling  out  the  tidings  of 
damnation  on  the  common  hard  by.'  Yes,  I  am  a  Sadducee;  and  I 
take  things  as  I  find  them,  and  the  world,  and  the  Acts  of  Parliament 
of  the  world,  as  they  are ;  and  as  I  intend  to  take  a  wife,  if  I  find  one 
— not  to  be  madly  in  love  and  prostrate  at  her  feet  like  a  fool — not  to 
worship  her  as  an  angel,  or  to  expect  to  find  her  as  such — but  to  be 
good-natured  to  her,  and  courteous,  expecting  good-nature  and  plea- 
sant society  from  her  in  turn.  And  so,  George,  if  ever  you  hear  of  my 
marrying,  depend  on  it,  it  won't  be  a  romantic  attachment  on  my 
side  :  and  if  you  hear  of  any  good  place  under  Government,  I  have  no 
particular  scruples  that  I  know  of,  which  would  prevent  me  from 
accepting  your  offer." 

"  O  Pen,  you  scoundrel !  I  know  what  you  mean,"  here  Warrington 
broke  out.  "  This  is  the  meaning  of  your  scepticism,  of  your  quietism, 
of  your  atheism,  my  poor  fellow.  You're  going  to  sell  yourself,  and 
Heaven  help  you !  You  are  going  to  make  a  bargain  which  will  degrade 
you  and  make  you  miserable  for  life,  and  there's  no  use  talking  of  it. 
If  you  are  once  bent  on  it,  the  devil  won't  prevent  you," 

"  On  the  contrary,  he's  on  my  side,  isn't  he,  George  ,^ "  said  Pen 
with  a  laugh.  "  What  good  cigars  these  are !  Come  down  and  have 
a  httle  dinner  at  the  Club ;  the  chefs  in  town,  and  hell  cook  a  good 
one  for  me.  No,  you  won't  ?  Don't  be  sulky,  old  boy,  I'm  going  down 
to — to  the  country-  to-morrow." 


PENDENiVJS.  611 


CHAPTER   LXII. 

WHICH  ACCOUNTS  PERHAPS   FOR  CHAPTER  LXI. 

THE  information  regarding  the  affairs  of  the  Clavering  family, 
which  Major  Pendennis  had  acquired  through  Strong,  and  by 
his  own  personal  interference  as  the  friend  of  the  house,  was  such  as 
almost  made  the  old  gentleman  pause  in  any  plans  which  he  might 
have  once  entertained  for  his  nephew's  benefit.  To  bestow  upon 
Arthur  a  wife  with  two  such  fathers-in-law,  as  the  two  worthies  whom 
the  guileless  and  unfortunate  Lady  Clavering  had  drawn  in  her 
marriage  ventures,  was  to  benefit  no  man.  And  though  the  one,  in  a 
manner,  neutralised  the  other,  and  the  appearance  of  Amory  or  Alta- 
mont  in  public  would  be  the  signal  for  his  instantaneous  withdrawal 
and  condign  punishment, — for  the  fugitive  convict  had  cut  down  the 
officer  in  charge  of  him,  and  a  rope  would  be  inevitably  his  end,  if  he 
came  again  under  British  authorities ;  yet  no  guardian  would  like  to 
secure  for  his  ward  a  wife  whose  parent  was  to  be  got  rid  of  in  such  a 
way;  and  the  old  gentleman's  notion  always  had  been  that  Altamont, 
with  the  gallows  before  his  eyes,  would  assuredly  avoid  recognition ; 
while,  at  the  same  tinae,  by  holding  the  threat  of  his  discovery  over 
Clavering,  the  latter,  who  would  lose  everything  by  Amory's  appear- 
ance, would  be  a  slave  in  the  hands  of  the  person  who  knew  so  fatal 
a  secret. 

But  if  the  Begum  paid  Clavering's  debts  many  times  more,  her 
wealth  would  be  expended  altogether  upon  this  irreclaimable  repro- 
bate ;  and  her  heirs,  whoever  they  might  be,  would  succeed  but  to  an 
emptied  treasury;  and  Miss  Amorj^,  instead  of  bringing  her  husband 
a  good  income  and  a  seat  in  Parliament,  would  bring  to  that  indi- 
vidual her  person  only,  and  her  pedigree  with  that  lamentable  note  of 
stis.  per  coll.  at  the  name  of  the  last  male  of  her  line. 

There  was,  however,  to  the  old  schemer  revolving  these  things  in 
his  mind,  another  course  yet  open ;  the  which  will  appear  to  the  reader 
who  may  take  the  trouble  to  peruse  a  conversation,  which  presently 
ensued,  between  Major  Pendennis  and  the  honourable  Baronet  the 
member  for  Clavering. 

When  a  man,  under  pecuniary  difficulties,  disappears  from  among 
his  usual  friends  and  equals, — dives  out  of  sight,  as  it  were,  from  the 


6i2  PEXDEXXIS. 

flock  of  birds  in  which  he  is  accustomed  to  sail,  it  is  wonderful  at  what 
strange  and  distant  nooks  he  comes  up  again  for  breath.  I  have 
known  a  Pall  Mall  lounger  and  Rotten  Row  buck,  of  no  inconsider- 
able fashion,  vanish  from  amongst  his  comrades  of  the  Clubs  and  the 
Park,  and  be  discovered,  very  happy  and  aftable,  at  an  eighteen-penny 
ordinary  in  Billingsgate:  another  gentleman,  of  great  learning  and 
wit,  when  out-running  the  constable  (were  I  to  say  he  was  a  literar)- 
man,  some  critics  would  vow  that  I  intended  to  insult  the  literary 
profession),  once  sent  me  his  address  at  a  little  public-house  called  the 
"  Fox  under  the  Hill,"  down  a  most  darksome  and  cavernous  archway 
in  the  Strand.  Such  a  man,  under  such  misfortunes,  may  have  a 
house,  but  he  is  never  in  his  house ;  and  has  an  address  where  letters 
may  be  left ;  but  only  simpletons  go  with  the  hopes  of  seeing  him. 
Only  a  few  of  the  faithful  know  where  he  is  to  be  found,  and  have  the 
clue  to  his  hiding-place.  So,  after  the  disputes  with  his  wife,  and  the 
misfortunes  consequent  thereon,  to  find  Sir  Francis  Clavering  at  home 
was  impossible.  "  Ever  since  I  hast  him  for  my  book,  which  is 
fourteen  pound,  he  don't  come  home  till  three  o'clock,  and  purtends  to 
be  asleep  when  I  bring  his  water  of  a  mornin",  and  dodges  hout  when 
I'm  downstairs,"  Mr.  Lightfoot  remarked  to  his  friend  Morgan;  and 
announced  that  he  should  go  down  to  my  Lady,  and  be  butler  there, 
and  marry  his  old  woman.  In  like  manner,  after  his  altercations  with 
Strong,  the  Baronet  did  not  come  near  him.,  and  fled  to  other  haunts, 
out  of  the  reach  of  the  Chevalier's  reproaches ; — out  of  the  reach  of 
conscience,  if  possible,  which  many  of  us  try  to  dodge  and  leave 
behind  us  by  changes  of  scene  and  other  fugitive  stratagems. 

So,  though  the  elder  Pendennis,  having  his  own  ulterior  object, 
was  bent  upon  seeing  Pen's  countr)-  neighbour  and  representative  in 
Parliament,  it  took  the  Major  no  inconsiderable  trouble  and  time 
before  he  could  get  him  into  such  a  confidential  state  and  conversa- 
tion, as  were  necessary  for  the  ends  which  the  Major  had  in  view. 
For  since  the  :\Iajor  had  been  called  in  as  family  friend,  and  had 
cognisance  of  Clavering's  affairs,  conjugal  and  pecuniary,  the  Baronet 
avoided  him  :  as  he  always  avoided  all  his  lawyers,  and  agents,  when 
there  was  an  account  to  be  rendered,  or  an  affair  of  business  to  be 
discussed  between  them ;  and  never  kept  any  appointment  but  when 
its  object  was  the  raising  of  money.  Thus,  previous  to  catching  this 
most  shy  and  timorous  bird,  the  Major  made  more  than  one  futile 
attempt  to  hold  him ;— on  one  day  it  was  a  most  innocent-looking 
invitation  to  dinner  at  Greenwich,  to  meet  a  few  friends ;  the  Baronet 
accepted,  suspected  something,  and  did  not  come ;  leaving  the  Major 
(who  indeed  proposed  to  represent  in  himself  the  body  of  friends)  to 
eat  his  whitebait  alone:— on  another  occasion  the  Major  wrote  and 
asked  for  ten  minutes'  talk,  and  the  Baronet  instantly  acknowledged 


PENDENNIS.  613 

the  note,  and  made  the  appointment  at  four  o'clock  the  next  day  at 
'Qz.ys's  precisely  (he  carefully  underlined  the  "  precisely") ;  but  though 
four  o'clock  came,  as  in  the  course  of  time  and  destiny  it  could  not  do 
otherwise,  no  Clavering  made  his  appearance.  Indeed,  if  he  had 
borrowed  twenty  pounds  of  Pendennis,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
timid,  or  desirous  of  avoiding  the  Major ;  and  the  latter  found  that  it 
was  one  thing  to  seek  a  man,  and  another  to  find  him. 

Before  the  close  of  that  day  in  which  Strong's  patron  had  given  the 
Chevalier  the  benefit  of  so  many  blessings  before  his  face  and  curses 
behind  his  back.  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  who  had  pledged  his  word 
and  his  oath  to  his  wife's  advisers  to  draw  or  accept  no  more  bills  of 
exchange,  and  to  be  content  with  the  allowance  which  his  victimised 
wife  still  awarded  him,  had  managed  to  sign  his  respectable  name  to  a 
piece  of  stamped  paper,  which  the  Baronet's  friend,  Mr.  Moss  Abrams, 
had  carried  off,  promising  to  have  the  bill  "  done  "  by  a  party  with 
whose  intimacy  Mr.  Abrams  was  favoured.  And  it  chanced  that  Strong 
heard  of  this  transaction  at  the  place  where  the  writings  had  been 
drawn, — in  the  back  parlour,  namely,  of  Mr.  Santiago's  cigar-shop, 
where  the  Chevalier  w^as  constantly  in  the  habit  of  spending  an  hour 
in  the  evening. 

"  He  is  at  his  old  work  again,"  Mr.  Santiago  told  his  customer. 
"  He  and  Moss  Abrams  were  in  my  parlour.  Moss  sent  out  my  boy 
for  a  stamp.  It  must  have  been  a  bill  for  fifty  pound.  I  heard  the 
Baronet  tell  Moss  to  date  it  two  months  back.  He  will  pretend  that 
it  is  an  old  bill,  and  that  he  forgot  it  when  he  came  to  a  settlement 
with  his  wife  the  other  day.  I  dare  say  they  will  give  him  some 
more  money  now  he  is  clear."  A  man  who  has  the  habit  of  putting 
his  unlucky  name  to  ^'  promises  to  pay  "  at  six  months,  has  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing,  too,  that  his  affairs  are  known  and  canvassed,  and 
his  signature  handed  round,  among  the  very  worst  knaves  and  rogues 
of  London. 

Mr.  Santiago's  shop  was  close  by  St.  James's  Street  and  Bury 
Street,  where  we  have  had  the  honour  of  visiting  our  friend  Major 
Pendennis  in  his  lodgings.  The  Major  was  walking  daintily  towards 
his  apartment,  as  Strong,  burning  with  wrath  and  redolent  of  Havanna, 
strode  along  the  same  pavement  opposite  to  him, 

"  Confound  these  young  men :  how  they  poison  ever)'thing  with 
their  smoke,"  thought  the  Major.  "  Here  comes  a  fellow  with  musta- 
chios  and  a  cigar.  Every  fellow  who  smokes  and  wears  mustachios  is 
a  low  fellow.  Oh!  it's  Mr.  Strong, — I  hope  you  are  well,  Mr.  Strong.'" 
and  the  old  gentleman,  making  a  dignified  bow  to  the  Chevalier,  was 
about  to  pass  into  his  house;  directing  towards  the  lock  of  the  door, 
with  trembling  hand,  the  polished  door-key. 


6i4  PENDENNIS. 

We  have  said,  that,  at  the  long  and  weary  disputes  and  conferences 
regarding  the  payment  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  last  debts.  Strong 
and  Pendennis  had  both  been  present  as  friends  and  advisers  of  the 
Baronet's  unlucky  family.  Strong  stopped  and  held  out  his  hand  to 
his  brother  negotiator,  and  old  Pendennis  put  out  towards  him  a 
couple  of  ungracious  fingers. 

"What  is  your  good  news?"  said  Major  Pendennis,  patronising 
the  other  still  farther,  and  condescending  to  address  to  him  an  observa- 
tion, for  old  Pendennis  had  kept  such  good  company  all  his  life,  that 
he  vaguely  imagined  he  honoured  common  men  by  speaking  to  them. 

"  Still  in  town,  Mr.  Strong  ?     I  hope  I  see  you  well  ?" 

"  'Sly  news  is  bad  news,  sir,"  Strong  answered ;  "  it  concerns  our 
friends  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  and  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  about  it. 
Clavering  is  at  his  old  tricks  again.  Major  Pendennis.'' 

"  Indeed !  Pray  do  me  the  favour  to  come  into  my  lodging," 
cried  the  Major,  with  awakened  interest ;  and  the  pair  entered  and 
took  possession  of  his  drawing-room.  Here  seated,  Strong  unbur- 
thened  himself  of  his  indignation  to  the  Major,  and  spoke  at  large 
of  Clavering's  recklessness  and  treachery.  "  No  promises  will  bind 
him,  sir,"  he  said.  "  You  remember  when  we  met,  sir,  with  my  lady's 
lawyer,  how  he  wouldn't  be  satisfied  with  giving  his  honour,  but 
wanted  to  take  his  oath  on  his  knees  to  his  wife,  and  rang  the  bell 
for  a  Bible,  and  swore  perdition  on  his  soul  if  he  ever  would  give 
another  bill.  He  has  been  signing  one  this  very  day,  sir :  and  will 
sign  as  many  more  as  you  please  for  ready  money :  he  will  deceive 
anybody,  his  wife  or  his  child,  or  his  old  friend,  who  has  backed  him 
a  hundred  times.  WTiy,  there's  a  bill  of  his  and  mine  will  be  due 
next  v.eek — " 

"  I  thought  we  had  paid  all — " 

"  Not  that  one,"  Strong  said,  blushing.  "  He  asked  me  not  to 
mention  it,  and— and— I  had  half  the  money  for  that,  Major,  And 
they  will  be  down  on  me.  But  I  don't  care  for  it:  I'm  used  to  it.  It's 
Lady  Clavering  that  riles  me.  It's  a  shame  that  that  good-natured 
woman,  who  has  paid  him  out  of  gaol  a  score  of  times,  should  be 
ruined  by  his  heartlessness.  A  parcel  of  bill-stealers,  boxers,  any 
rascals,  get  his  money ;  and  he  don't  scruple  to  throw  an  honest  fellow 
over.  Would  you  believe  it,  sir,  he  took  money  of  Altamont— you 
know  whom  I  mean  ? " 

"  Indeed  ?  of  that  singular  man,  who  I  think  came  tipsy  once  to 
Sir  Francis's  house?"  Major  Pendennis  said,  with  impenetrable  coun- 
tenance.    "  Who  is  Altamont,  Mr.  Strong  ?  " 

"I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  if  you  don't  know,"  the  Chev.ilicr 
answered,  with  a  look  of  surprise  snd  suspicion. 

"  To  tell  you  frankly,"  said  the  Major,  "  I  have  my  suspicions. 


PENDENNIS.  615 

I  suppose — mind,  I  only  suppose — that  in  our  friend  Clavering's  life — 
who,  between  you  and  me,  Captain  Strong,  we  must  own  is  about  as 
loose  a  fish  as  any  in  my  acquaintance — there  are,  no  doubt,  some 
queer  secrets  and  stories  which  he  would  not  like  to  have  known ; 
none  of  us  would.  And  very  likely  this  fellow,  who  calls  himself 
Altamont,  knows  some  story  against  Clavering,  and  has  some  hold  on 
him,  and  gets  money  out  of  him  on  the  strength  of  his  information. 
I  know  some  of  the  best  men  of  the  best  families  in  England  who  are 
paying  through  the  nose  in  that  way.  But  their  private  affairs  are 
no  business  of  mine,  Mr.  Strong ;  and  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
because  I  go  and  dine  with  a  man,  I  pry  into  his  secrets,  or  am 
answerable  for  all  his  past  life.  And  so  with  our  friend  Clavering, 
1  am  most  interested  for  his  wife's  sake,  and  her  daughter's,  who  is  a 
most  charming  creature :  and  when  her  ladyship  asked  me,  I  looked 
into  her  affairs,  and  tried  to  set  them  straight ;  and  shall  do  so  again, 
you  understand,  to  the  best  of  my  humble  power  and  ability,  if  1  can 
make  myself  useful.  And  if  I  am  called  upon— you  understand,  if  I 
am  called  upon — and — by  the  way,  this  Mr.  Altamont,  Mr.  Strong  .^ 
How  is  this  Mr.  Altamont .''  I  believe  you  are  acquainted  with  him. 
Is  he  in  town  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  am  called  upon  to  know  where  he  is,  Major 
Pendennis,"  said  Strong,  rising  and  taking  up  his  hat  in  dudgeon,  for 
the  Major's  patronising  manner  and  impertinence  of  caution  offended 
the  honest  gentleman  not  a  little. 

Pendennis's  manner  altered  at  once  from  a  tone  of  hauteur  to  one 
of  knowing  good-humour.  "  Ah,  Captain  Strong,  you  are  cautious 
too,  I  see ;  and  quite  right,  my  good  sir,  quite  right.  We  don't  know 
what  ears  walls  may  have,  sir,  or  to  whom  we  may  be  talking ;  and 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  and  an  old  soldier — an  old  and  distinguished 
soldier,  I  have  been  told,  Captain  Strong, — you  know  very  well  that 
there  is  no  use  in  throwing  away  your  fire ;  you  may  have  your  ideas, 
and  I  may  put  two  and  two  together  and  have  mine.  But  there  are 
things  which  don't  concern  him  that  many  a  man  had  better  not  knov.-, 
eh.  Captain?  and  which  I,  for  one,  won't  know  until  I  have  reason  for 
knowing  them  :  and  that  I  believe  is  your  maxim  too.  With  regard  to 
our  friend  the  Baronet,  I  think  with  you,  it  would  be  most  advisable 
that  he  should  be  checked  in  his  imprudent  courses ;  and  most 
strongly  reprehend  any  man's  departure  from  his  word,  or  any  conduct 
of  his  which  can  give  any  pain  to  his  family,  or  cause  them  annoyance 
in  any  way.  That  is  my  full  and  frank  opinion,  and  I  am  sure  it  is 
yours." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Strong,  drily. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it ;  delighted,  that  an  old  brother  soldier 
should  agree  with  me  so  fully.    And  I  am  exceedingly  glad  of  the  lucky 


6,6  PENDEXXIS. 

meeting  which  has  procured  me  the  good  fortune  of  your  visit.  Good 
evening.     Thank  you.     Morgan,  show  the  door  to  Captain  Strong." 

And  Strong,  preceded  by  Morgan,  took  his  leave  of  Major  Pen- 
dennis ;  the  Chevaher  not  a  Httle  puzzled  at  the  old  fellow's  prudence ; 
and  the  valet,  to  say  the  truth,  to  the  full  as  much  perplexed  at  his 
master's  reticence.  For  Mr.  Morgan,  in  his  capacity  of  accomplished 
valet,  moved  here  and  there  in  a  house  as  silent  as  a  shadow ;  and, 
as  it  so  happened,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  masters  conversation 
with  his  visitor,  had  been  standing  ver>'  close  to  the  door,  and  had 
overheard  not  a  little  of  the  talk  between  the  two  gentlemen,  and  a 
great  deal  more  than  he  could  understand. 

"  Who  is  that  Altamont  ?  know  anything  about  him  and  Strong  ? " 
Mr.  Morgan  asked  of  Mr.  Lightfoot,  on  the  next  convenient  occasion 
when  they  met  at  the  Club. 

"  Strong's  his  man  of  business,  draws  the  Governors  bills,  and 
indosses  'em,  and  does  his  odd  jobs  and  that ;  and  I  suppose  Alta- 
mont's  in  it  too,"  Mr.  Lightfoot  replied.  "  That  kite-flying,  you  know, 
Mr.  M.,  always  takes  two  or  three  on  'em  to  set  the  paper  going. 
Altamont  put  the  pot  on  at  the  Derby,  and  won  a  good  bit  of  money. 
I  wish  the  Governor  could  get  some  somewhere,  and  I  could  get  my 
book  paid  up." 

"Do  you  think  my  lady  would  pay  his  debts  again.'"  Morgan 
asked.  "  Find  out  that  for  me,  Lightfoot,  and  I'll  make  it  worth  your 
while,  my  boy." 

Major  Pendennis  had  often  said  with  a  laugh,  that  his  valet  Morgan 
was  a  much  richer  man  than  himself :  and,  indeed,  by  a  long  course 
of  careful  speculation,  this  wary  and  silent  attendant  had  been  amassing 
a  considerable  sum  of  money,  during  the  years  which  he  had  passed 
in  the  Major's  service,  where  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  many 
other  valets  of  distinction,  from  whom  he  had  learned  the  affairs  of 
their  principals.  When  j\Ir.  Arthur  came  into  his  property,  but  not 
until  then,  Morgan  had  surprised  the  young  gentleman  by  saying  that 
he  had  a  little  sum  of  money,  some  fifty  or  a  hundred  pound,  which 
he  wanted  to  lay  out  to  advantage ;  perhaps  the  gentlemen  in  the 
Temple,  knowing  about  affairs  and  business  and  that,  could  help  a 
poor  fellow  to  a  good  investment?  Morgan  would  be  ver>'  much 
obliged  to  Mr.  Arthur,  most  grateful  and  obliged  indeed,  if  Arthur 
could  tell  him  of  one.  When  Arthur  laughingly  replied,  that  he  knew 
nothing  about  money  matters,  and  knew  no  earthly  way  of  helping 
Morgan,  the  latter,  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  was  very  grateful,  very 
grateful  indeed,  to  IMr.  Arthur,  and  if  Mr.  Arthur  sIiouU  want  a  little 
money  before  his  rents  was  paid,  perhaps  he  would  kindly  remember 
that  his  uncle's  old  and  faithful  ser%^ant  had  some  as  he  would  like  to 


PEA'J.)EANIS.  617 

put  out :  and  be  most  proud  if  he  could  be  useful  anyways  to  any  of 
the  family. 

The  Prince  of  Fairoaks,  who  was  tolerably  prudent  and  had  no 
need  of  ready  money,  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  borrowing  from 
liis  uncle's  servant  as  of  stealing  the  valet's  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
was  on  the  point  of  making  some  haughty  reply  to  Morgan's  offer, 
but  was  checked  by  the  humour  of  the  transaction.  Morgan,  a 
capitalist!  Morgan  offering  to  lend  to  him!  The  joke  was  excellent. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  man  might  be  quite  innocent,  and  the  pro- 
posal of  money  a  simple  offer  of  good-will.  So  Arthur  withheld  the 
sarcasm  that  was  rising  to  his  lips,  and  contented  himself  by  declining 
Mr.  Morgan's  kind  proposal.  He  mentioned  the  matter  to  his  uncle, 
however,  and  congratulated  the  latter  on  having  such  a  treasure  in 
his  service. 

It  was  then  that  the  Major  said  that  he  believed  Morgan  had  been 
getting  devilish  rich  for  a  devilish  long  time;  in  fact  he  had  bought 
the  house  in  Bury  Street,  in  which  his  master  was  a  lodger;  and  had 
actually  made  a  considerable  sum  of  money  from  his  acquaintance  with 
the  Clavering  family,  and  his  knowledge  obtained  through  his  master 
that  the  Begum  would  pay  all  her  husband's  debts,  by  buying  up  as 
many  of  the  Baronet's  acceptances  as  he  could  raise  money  to 
purchase.  Of  these  transactions  the  Major,  however,  knew  no  more 
than  most  gentlemen  do  of  their  servants,  who  live  with  us  all  our  days 
and  are  strangers  to  us :  so  strong  custom  is,  and  so  pitiless  the  dis- 
tinction between  class  and  class. 

"So  he  offered  to  lend  you  money,  did  he.'"'  the  elder  Pendennis 
remarked  to  his  nephew.  "  He's  a  dev'lish  sly  fellow,  and  a  dev'lish 
rich  fellow ;  and  there's  many  a  nobleman  would  like  to  ha\-e  such  a 
valet  in  his  service,  and  borrow  from  him  too.  And  he  ain't  a  bit 
changed,  Monsieur  Morgan.  He  does  his  work  just  as  well  as  ever — 
he's  always  ready  to  my  bell — steals  about  the  room  like  a  cat — he's  so 
dev'lishly  attached  to  me,  Morgan  !" 

On  the  day  of  Strong's  visit,  the  Major  bethought  him  of  Pen's 
story,  and  that  Morgan  might  help  him,  and  rallied  the  valet  regard- 
ing his  wealth  with  that  free  and  insolent  way  which  so  high-placed 
a  gentleman  might  be  disposed  to  adopt  towards  so  unfortunate  a 
creature. 

"  I  hear  that  you  have  got  some  money  to  invest,  Morgan,"  said 
the  Major. 

''  It's  Mr.  Arthur  has  been  telling,  hang  him  !  "  thought  the  valet. 

"  I'm  glad  my  place  is  such  a  good  one." 

"  Thank  you,  sir — I've  no  reason  to  complain  of  my  place  nor  of 
my  master,"  replied  Morgan,  demurely. 

"  You're  a  good  fellow  :  and  I  believe  you  are  attached  to  me ;  and 


6,s  PENDENNIS. 

I'm  "-lad  you  get  on  well.     And  I  hope  you'll  be  prudent,  and  not  be 
taking  a  public-house  or  that  kind  of  thing." 

'  A  public-house,'  thought  Morgan — '  me  in  a  public-house  ! — the  old 
fool!— Dammy,  if  I  was  ten  years  younger  I'd  set  in  Parhinent 
before  I  died,  that  I  would.'—"  No,  thank  you  kindly,  sir.  I  don't 
think  of  the  public  line,  sir.  And  I've  got  my  little  savings  pretty  well 
put  out,  sir." 

"  You  do  a  little  in  the  discounting  way,  eh,  Morgan  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  a  very  little — I — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — might  I  be  so 
free  as  to  ask  a  question  ? " 

"  Speak  on,  my  good  fellow,"  the  elder  said,  graciously. 

"About  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  paper,  sir?  Do  you  think  he's  any 
longer  any  good,  sir  'i    Will  my  lady  pay  on  'em  any  more,  sir  } " 

"What,  you've  done  something  in  that  business  already.'" 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little,"  replied  Morgan,  dropping  down  his  eyes.  "And 
1  don't  mind  owning,  sir,  and  I  hope  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  saying, 
sir,  that  a  little  more  would  make  me  ver)'  comfortable  if  it  turned  out 
as  well  as  the  last." 

"  Why,  how  much  have  you  netted  by  him,  in  Gad's  name  ?"  asked 
the  Major. 

"  I've  done  a  good  bit,  sir,  at  it :  that  I  own.  sir.  Having  some 
information,  and  made  acquaintance  with  the  fam'ly  through  your 
kindness,  I  put  on  the  pot,  sir." 

"You  did  what?" 

"  I  laid  my  money  on,  sir — I  got  all  I  could,  and  borrowed,  and 
bought  Sir  Francis's  bills;  many  of  'em  had  his  name,  and  the  gentle- 
man's as  is  just  gone  out,  Edward  Strong,  Esquire,  sir :  and  of  course 
I  know  of  the  blow-hup  and  shindy  as  is  took  place  in  Grosvenor 
Place,  sir;  and  as  I  may  as  well  make  my  money  as  another,  I'd  be 
very  much  obleeged  to  you  if  you'd  tell  me  whether  my  lady  will  come 
douTi  any  more." 

Although  Major  Pendennis  was  as  much  surprised  at  this  intelli- 
gence regarding  his  servant,  as  if  he  had  heard  that  Morgan  was  a 
disguised  Marquis,  about  to  throw  off  his  mask  and  assume  his  scat 
in  the  House  of  Peers ;  and  although  he  was  of  course  indignant  at  the 
audacity  of  the  fellow  who  had  dared  to  grow  rich  under  his  nose,  and 
without  his  cognizance;  yet  he  had  a  natural  admiration  for  even,- 
man  who  represented  money  and  success,  and  found  himself  respecting 
Morgan,  and  being  rather  afraid  of  that  worthy,  as  the  truth  began  t« 
dawn  upon  him. 

"  Well,  Morgan,"  said  he,  "  I  mustn't  ask  how  rich  you  are ;  and 
the  richer  the  better  for  your  sake,  I'm  sure.  And  if  I  could  give 
you  any  information  that  could  serve  you,  I  would  speedily  help  you. 
But  frankly,  if  Lady  Clavering  asks  me  whether  she  shall  pay  any 


PENDENNIS.  619 

more  of  Sir  Francis's  debts,  I  shall  advise  and  hope  she  won't,  though 
I  fear  she  will — and  that  is  all  I  know.  And  so  you  are  aware  that 
Sir  Francis  is  beginning  again  in  his — eh — reckless  and  imprudent 
course  ?  " 

"  At  his  old  games,  sir — can't  prevent  that  gentleman.  He  will 
do  it." 

"  Mr.  Strong  was  saying  that  a  Mr.  Moss  Abrams  was  the  holder 
of  one  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  notes.  Do  you  know  anything  of 
this  Mr.  Abrams  or  the  amount  of  the  bill .'' " 

"  Don't  know  the  bill ;  know  Abrams  quite  well,  sir." 

"  I  wish  you  would  find  out  about  it  for  me.  And  I  wish  you  would 
find  out  where  I  can  sec  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  Morgan." 

And  Morgan  said,  "Thank  you,  sir — yes,  sir — I  will,  sir;"  and 
retired  from  the  room,  as  he  had  entered  it,  with  his  usual  stealthy 
respect  and  quiet  humility ;  leaving  the  Major  to  muse  and  wonder 
over  what  he  had  just  heard. 

The  ne.xt  morning  the  valet  informed  Major  Pendennis  that  he 
had  seen  Mr.  Abrams;  what  was  the  amount  of  the  bill  that  gentle- 
man was  desirous  to  negotiate ;  and  that  the  Baronet  would  be  sure 
to  be  in  the  back  parlour  of  the  "  Wheel  of  Fortune  "  Tavern  that  day 
at  one  o'clock. 

To  this  appointment  Sir  Francis  Clavering  was  punctual,  and  as 
at  one  o'clock  he  sate  in  the  parlour  of  the  tavern  in  question,  sur- 
rounded by  spittoons,  Windsor  chairs,  cheerful  prints  of  boxers, 
trotting-horses,  and  pedestrians,  and  the  lingering  of  last  night's 
tobacco-fumes — as  the  descendant  of  an  ancient  line  sate  in  this 
delectable  place  accommodated  with  an  old  copy  of  "  Bell's  Life  in 
London,"  much  blotted  with  beer,  the  polite  Major  Pendennis  walked 
into  the  apartment. 

"  So  it's  you,  old  boy  ?"  asked  the  Baronet,  thinking  that  Mr.  Moss 
Abrams  had  arrived  with  the  money. 

"How  do  you  do,  Sir  Francis  Clavering?  I  wanted  to  see  you, 
and  followed  you  here,"  said  the  Major,  at  sight  of  whom  the  other's 
countenance  fell. 

Now  that  he  had  his  opponent  before  him,  the  Major  was  deter- 
mined to  make  a  brisk  and  sudden  attack  upon  him,  and  went  into 
action  at  once.  "  I  know,"  he  continued,  "  who  is  the  exceedingly 
disreputable  person  for  whom  you  took  me,  Clavering;  and  the 
errand  which  brought  you  here." 

"  It  ain't  your  business,  is  it  ? "  asked  the  Baronet,  with  a  sulky 
and  deprecatory  look.  "  Why  are  you  following  me  about,  and  taking 
the  command  and  meddling  in  my  affairs.  Major  Pendennis  1  I've 
never  done  yoji  any  harm,  have  I }    I've  never  had  your  money.    And 


6;o  PEyDEXXIS. 

I  don't  choose  to  be  dodged  about  in  this  way,  and  domineered  over. 
I  don't  choose  it,  and  I  won't  have  it.  If  Lady  Clavering  has  any 
proposal  to  make  to  me,  let  it  be  done  in  the  regular  way,  and  through 
the  lawyers,     I'd  rather  not  have  you." 

"  I  am  not  come  from  Lady  Clavering,"  the  Major  said,  "  but  of 
my  own  accord,  to  try  and  remonstrate  with  you,  Clavering,  and  see 
if  you  can  be  kept  from  ruin.  It  is  but  a  month  ago  that  you  swore 
on  your  honour,  and  wanted  to  get  a  Bible  to  strengthen  the  oath, 
that  you  would  accept  no  more  bills,  but  content  yourself  with  the 
allowance  which  Lady  Clavering  gives  you.  All  your  debts  were  paid 
with  that  proviso,  and  you  have  broken  it ;  this  Mr.  Abrams  has  a  bill 
of  yours  for  sixty  pounds." 

"  It's  an  old  bill.  I  take  my  solemn  oath  it's  an  old  bill,"  shrieked 
out  the  Baronet. 

"  You  drew  it  yesterday,  and  you  dated  it  two  months  back 
purposely.  By  Gad,  Clavering,  you  sicken  me  with  lies,  I  can't  help 
telling  you  so.  I've  no  patience  with  you,  by  Gad.  You  cheat  every- 
body, yourself  included.  I've  seen  a  deal  of  the  world,  but  I  never 
met  your  equal  at  humbugging.  It's  my  belief  you  had  rather  lie 
than  not." 

"  Have  you  come  here,  you  old,  old  beast,  to  tempt  me  to — to  pitch 
into  you,  and — knock  your  old  head  off?"  said  the  Baronet,  with  a 
poisonous  look  of  hatred  at  the  Major. 

"What,  sir?"  shouted  out  the  old  Major,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
clasping  his  cane,  and  looking  so  fiercely,  that  the  Baronet's  tone 
instantly  changed  towards  him. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Clavering,  piteously ;  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  I 
didn't  mean  to  be  angry,  or  say  anything  unkind,  only  you're  so 
damned  harsh  to  me.  Major  Pendennis.  What  is  it  you  want  of 
me  ?  Why  have  you  been  hunting  me  so  ?  Do  you  want  money  out 
of  me,  too  ?  By  Jove,  you  know  I've  not  got  a  shilling," — and  so 
Clavering,  according  to  his  custom,  passed  from  a  curse  into  a 
whimper. 

Major  Pendennis  saw,  from  the  other's  tone,  that  Clavering  knew 
his  secret  was  in  the  Majors  hands. 

"  I've  no  errand  from  anybody  or  no  design  upon  you,"  Pendennis 
said,  "but  an  endeavour,  if  it's  not  too  late,  to  save  you  and  your 
family  from  utter  ruin,  through  the  infernal  recklessness  of  your 
courses.     I  knew  your  secret — " 

'•  I  didn't  know  it  when  I   married  her  ;  upon  my  oath   I    didn't 

know  it,  till  the  d d  scoundrel  came  back  and  told  me  himself ; 

and  it's  the  misery  about  that  which  makes  me  so  reckless,  Pendennis  ; 
mdeed  it  is,"  the  Baronet  cried,  clasping  his  hands. 

"  I  knew  your  secret  from  the  very  first  day  when  I  saw  Amor>- 


PEXDENNIS.  621 

come  drunk  into  your  dining-room  in  Grosvenor  Place.  I  never 
forget  faces.  I  remember  that  fellow  in  Sydney  a  convict,  and  he 
remembers  me.  I  know  his  trial,  the  date  of  his  marriage,  and  of 
his  reported  death  in  the  bush.  I  could  swear  to  him.  And  I  know 
you  are  no  more  married  to  Lady  Clavering  than  I  am,  I've  kept 
your  secret  well  enough,  for  I've  not  told  a  single  soul  that  I  know  it, 
— not  your  wife,  not  yourself  till  now." 

"  Poor  Lady  C,  it  would  cut  her  up  dreadfully,"  whimpered  Sir 
Francis  ;  "  and  it  wasn't  my  fault.  Major  ;  you  know  it  wasn't." 

"  Rather  than  allow  you  to  go  on  ruining  her  as  you  do,  I  ivill  tell 
her,  Clavering,  and  tell  all  the  world  too  ;  that  is  what  I  swear  I  will 
do,  unless  I  can  come  to  some  terms  with  you,  and  put  some  curb  on 
your  infernal  folly.  By  play,  debt,  and  extravagance  of  all  kinds, 
you've  got  through  half  your  wife's  fortune,  and  that  of  her  legitimate 
heirs,  mind — her  legitimate  heirs.  Here  it  must  stop.  You  can't  live 
together.  You're  not  fit  to  live  in  a  great  house  like  Clavering  ;  and 
before  three  years  more  were  over,  would  not  leave  a  shilling  to  carry 
on.  I've  settled  what  must  be  done.  You  shall  have  si.x  hundred 
a  year ;  you  shall  go  abroad  and  live  on  that.  You  must  give  up 
Parliament,  and  get  on  as  well  as  you  can.  If  you  refuse,  I  give 
you  my  word  I'll  make  the  real  state  of  things  known  to-morrow  ; 
ril  swear  to  Amory,  who,  when  identified,  will  go  back  to  the  country 
from  whence  he  came,  and  will  rid  the  widow  of  you  and  himself  to- 
gether. And  so  that  boy  of  yours  loses  at  once  all  title  to  old  Snell's 
property,  and  it  goes  to  your  wife's  daughter.  Ain't  I  making  myself 
pretty  clearly  understood  ? " 

"  You  wouldn't  be  so  cruel  to  that  poor  boy,  would  you,  Pen- 
dennis  ? "  asked  the  father,  pleading  piteously  ;  "  hang  it,  think 
about  him.  He's  a  nice  boy  ;  though  he's  dev'lish  wild,  I  own — he's 
dev'lish  wild." 

"  It's  you  who  are  cruel  to  him,"  said  the  old  moralist.  "  Why, 
sir,  you'll  ruin  him  yourself  inevitably  in  three  years." 

"  Yes,  but  perhaps  I  won't  have  such  dev'lish  bad  luck,  you  know  ; 
— the  luck  must  turn  :  and  I'll  reform,  by  Gad,  I'll  reform.  And  if 
you  were  to  split  on  me,  it  would  cut  up  my  wife  so  ;  you  know  it 
would,  most  infernally." 

"To  be  parted  from  you"  said  the  old  Major,  vdth  a  sneer  ;  "  you 
know  she  won't  live  with  you  again." 

"  But  why  can't  Lady  C.  live  abroad,  or  at  Bath,  or  at  Tunbridge, 
or  at  the  doose,  and  I  go  on  here  ? "  Clavering  continued.  "  I  like 
being  here  better  than  abroad,  and  I  like  being  in  Parliament.  It's 
dev'lish  convenient  being  in  Parliament.  There's  very  few  seats  like 
mine  left  ;  and  if  I  gave  it  'em,  I  should  not  wonder  the  Ministry- 
would  give  me  an  island  to  govern,  or  some  dev'lish  good  thing ;  for 


522  PEXDEXXIS. 

Tou  know  I'm  a  gentleman  of  devlish  good  family,  and  have  a  handle 
\o  mv  name,  and— and  that  sort  of  thing,  Major  Pendenms.  Eh, 
don't 'you  see?  Don't  you  think  they'd  give  me  something  derlish 
good  if  I  was  to  play  my  cards  well  ?  And  then,  you  know,  I'd 
save  money,  and  be  kept  out  of  the  way  of  the  confounded  hells 
and  rouge  et  «<7/r— and— and  so  I'd  rather  not  give  up  Parliament, 
please."  "^  For  at  one  instant  to  hate  and  defy  a  man,  at  the  next  to 
weep  before  him,  and  at  the  next  to  be  perfectly  confidential  and 
friendly  with  him,  was  not  an  unusual  process  with  our  versatile- 
minded  Baronet. 

'•  As  for  your  seat  in  Parliament,''  the  Major  said,  with  some- 
thing of  a  blush  on  his  cheek,  and  a  certain  tremor,  w^hich  the  other 
did  not  see,  "  you  must  part  with  that,  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  to — 
to  me." 

"  What  !  are  you  going  into  the  House,  Major  Pendennis  ? " 

<■<■  No — not  I  ;  but  my  nephew,  Arthur,  is  a  ver>-  clever  fellow,  and 
would  make  a  figure  there  :  and  when  Clavering  had  two  Members, 
his  father  might  ver)'  hkely  have  been  one  ;  and — and  I  should  like 
Arthur  to  be  there,"  the  Major  said. 

"  Dammy,  does  he  know  it  too  ? "  cried  out  Clavering. 

'•  Nobody  knows  anything  out  of  this  room,"  Pendennis  answered; 
"  and  if  you  do  this  favour  for  me,  I  hold  my  tongue.  If  not,  I'm  a 
man  of  my  word,  and  will  do  what  I  have  said." 

"  I  say,  Major,"  said  Sir  Francis,  with  a  peculiarly  humble  smile, 
'•'you — you  couldn't  get  me  my  first  quarter  in  advance,  could  you, 
like  the  best  of  fellows?  You  can  do  annhing  with  Lady  Clavering ; 
and,  upon  my  oath,  I'll  take  up  that  bill  of  Abrams.  The  little  dam 
scoundrel,  I  know  he'll  do  me  in  the  business — he  always  does ;  and 
if  you  could  do  this  for  me,  we'd  see,  Major." 

"And  I  think  your  best  plan  would  be  to  go  down  in  September  to 
Clavering  to  shoot,  and  take  my  nephew  with  you,  and  introduce  him. 
Yes,  that  will  be  the  best  time.  And  we  wiU  tr)-  and  manage  about 
the  advance."  (Arthur  may  lend  him  that,  thought  old  Pendennis. 
Confoimd  him,  a  seat  in  Parliament  is  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds.)  "And,  Clavering,  you  understand,  of  course,  my  nephew 
knows  nothing  about  this  business.  You  have  a  mind  to  retire :  he  is 
a  Clavering  man,  and  a  good  representative  for  the  borough;  you 
introduce  him,  and  your  people  vote  for  him — you  see." 

"\Vhen  can  you  get  me  the  hundred  and  fifty,  Major?  When 
shall  I  come  and  see  you  ?  Will  you  be  at  home  this  evening  or  to- 
morrow morning  ?  Will  you  have  anything  here  ?  The>''ve  got  some 
dev'lish  good  bitters  in  the  bar.  I  often  have  a  glass  of  bitters,  it  sets 
one  up  so." 

The  old  Major  would   take   no  refreshment;   but  rose  and  took 


PENDEXN/S.  623 

his  leave  of  the  Baronet,  who  walked  with  him  to  the  door  of  the 
'*  Wheel  of  Fortune,"  and  then  strolled  into  the  bar,  where  he  took  a 
glass  of  gin-and-bitters  with  the  landlady  there :  and  a  gentleman  con- 
nected with  the  ring  (who  boarded  at  the  "  Wheel  of  F.")  coming  in, 
he  and  Sir  Francis  Clavering  and  the  landlord  talked  about  the  fights 
and  the  news  of  the  sporting  world  in  general ;  and  at  length  Mr.  Moss 
Abrams  arrived  with  the  proceeds  of  the  Baronet's  bill,  from  which  his 
own  handsome  commission  was  deducted,  and  out  of  the  remainder 
Sir  Francis  "  stood ''  a  dinner  at  Greenwich  to  his  distinguished  friend, 
and  passed  the  evening  gaily  at  Vauxhall. 

Meanwhile,  Major  Pendennis,  calling  a  cab  in  Piccadilly,  drove  to 
Lamb  Court,  Temple,  where  he  speedily  was  closeted  with  his  nephew 
in  deep  conversation. 

After  their  talk  they  parted  on  very  good  terms,  and  it  was  in 
consequence  of  that  unreported  conversation,  whereof  the  reader 
nevertheless  can  pretty  well  guess  the  bearing,  that  Arthur  expressed 
himself  as  we  have  heard  in  the  colloquy  with  Warrington,  which  is 
reported  in  the  last  chapter. 

When  a  man  is  tempted  to  do  a  tempting  thing,  he  can  find  a 
hundred  ingenious  reasons  for  gratifying  his  liking :  and  Arthur 
thought  very  much  that  he  would  like  to  be  in  Parliament,  and  that 
he  would  like  to  distinguish  himself  there,  and  that  he  need  not  care 
much  what  side  he  took,  as  there  was  falsehood  and  truth  on  every 
side.  And  on  this  and  on  other  matters  he  thought  he  would  compro- 
mise with  his  conscience,  and  that  Sadduceeism  was  a  very  convenient 
and  good-humoured  profession  of  faith. 


6:4 


PENDEXXIS. 


CHAPTER   LXIII. 

PHILLIS   AND   CORYDOX. 

ON  a  picturesque  common  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Tunbridge 
Wells,  Lady  Clavering  had  found  a  pretty  villa,  whither  she 
retired  after  her  conjugal  disputes  at  the  end  of  that  unlucky  London 
season.  Miss  Amory,  of  course,  accompanied  her  mother,  and  Master 
Clavering  came  home  for  the  holidays,  with  whom  Blanche's  chief 
occupation  was  to  fight  and  quarrel.  But  this  was  only  a  home 
pastime,  and  the  young  school-boy  was  not  fond  of  home  sports.  He 
found  cricket,  and  horses,  and  plenty  of  friends  at  Tunbridge.  The 
good-natured  Begum's  house  was  filled  with  a  constant  societj'  of 
young  gentlemen  of  thirteen,  who  ate  and  drank  much  too  copiously 
of  tarts  and  champagne,  who  rode  races  on  the  lawn,  and  frightened 
the  fond  mother,  who  smoked  and  made  themselves  sick,  and  the 
dining-room  unbearable  to  Miss  Blanche.  She  did  not  like  the  society 
of  young  gentlemen  of  thirteen. 

As  for  that  fair  young  creature,  any  change  as  long  as  it  was 
change  was  pleasant  to  her;  and  for  a  week  or  two  she  would  have 
hked  poverty  and  a  cottage,  and  bread  and  cheese;  and,  for  a  nighty 
perhaps,  a  dungeon  and  bread  and  water,  and  so  the  move  to  Tun- 
bridge was  by  no  means  unwelcome  to  her.  She  wandered  in  the 
woods,  and  sketched  trees  and  farm-houses  ;  she  read  French  novels 
habitually  ;  she  drove  into  Tunbridge  Wells  pretty  often,  and  to  any 
play,  or  ball,  or  conjuror,  or  musician  who  might  happen  to  appear  in 
the  place;  she  slept  a  great  deal;  she  quarrelled  with  mamma  and 
Frank  during  the  morning;  she  found  the  little  village  school  and 
attended  it,  and  first  fondled  the  girls  and  thwarted  the  mistress,  then 
scolded  the  girls  and  laughed  at  the  teacher ;  she  was  constant  at 
church,  of  course.  It  was  a  pretty  little  church,  of  immense  antiquity 
— a  little  Anglo-Norman  bijou,  built  the  day  before  yesterday,  and 
decorated  with  all  sorts  of  painted  windows,  car\-ed  saints'  heads,  gilt 
scripture  texts,  and  open  pews.  Blanche  began  forthwith  to  work  a 
most  correct  high-church  altar-cover  for  the  church.  She  passed  for 
a  saint  with  the  clergyman  for  a  while,  whom  she  quite  took  in,  and 
whom  she  coaxed,  and  wheedled,  and  fondled  so  artfully,  that  poor 
Mrs.  Smirke,  who  at  first  was  charmed  with  her,  then  bore  with  her, 


PENDEXXIS.  62> 

then  would  hardly  speak  to  her,  was  almost  mad  with  jealousy.  Mrs. 
Smirke  was  the  wife  of  our  old  friend  Smirke,  Pen's  tutor  and  poor 
Helen's  suitor.  He  hald  consoled  himself  for  her  refusal  with  a  young 
lady  from  Clapham  whom  his  mamma  provided.  When  the  latter 
died,  our  friend's  views  became  every  day  more  and  more  pronounced. 
He  cut  off  his  coat-collar,  and  let  his  hair  grow  over  his  back.  He 
rigorously  gave  up  the  curl  which  he  used  to  sport  on  his  forehead, 
and  the  tie  of  his  neckcloth,  of  which  he  was  rather  proud.  He  went 
without  any  tie  at  all.  He  went  without  dinner  on  Fridays.  He  read 
the  Roman  Hours,  and  intimated  that  he  was  ready  to  receive  con- 
fessions in  the  vestry.  The  most  harmless  creature  in  the  world,  he 
was  denounced  as  a  black  and  most  dangerous  Jesuit  and  Papist,  by 
Muffin  of  the  Dissenting  chapel,  and  Mr.  Simeon  Knight  at  the  old 
church.  Mr.  Smirke  had  built  his  chapel  of  ease  with  the  money  left 
him  by  his  mother  at  Clapham.  Lord !  lord !  what  would  she  have 
said  to  hear  a  table  called  an  altar !  to  see  candlesticks  on  it !  to  get 
letters  signed  on  the  Feast  of  Saint  So-and-so,  or  the  Vigil  of  Saint 
What-do-you-cali-'em !  All  these  things  did  the  boy  of  Clapham 
practise ;  his  faithful  wife  following  him.  But  when  Blanche  had  a 
conference  of  near  two  hours  in  the  vestry  with  Mr.  Smirke,  Belinda 
paced  up  and  down  on  the  grass,  where  there  were  only  two  httle 
grave-stones  as  yet ;  she  wished  that  she  had  a  third  there :  only,  only 
he  would  offer  very  likely  to  that  creature,  who  had  infatuated  him  in 
a  fortnight.  No,  she  would  retire;  she  would  go  into  a  convent,  and 
profess  and  leave  him.  Such  bad  thoughts  had  Smirke's  wife  and  his 
neighbours  regarding  him ;  these,  thinking  him  in  direct  correspond- 
ence with  the  Bishop  of  Rome;  that,  bewailing  errors  to  her  even 
more  odious  and  fatal ;  and  yet  our  friend  meant  no  earthly  harm. 
The  post-office  never  brought  him  any  letters  from  the  Pope;  he 
thought  Blanche,  to  be  sure,  at  first,  the  most  pious,  gifted,  right-think- 
ing, fascinating  person  he  had  ever  met;  and  her  manner  of  singing 
the  Chants  delighted  him — but  after  a  while  he  began  to  grow  rather 
tired  of  Miss  Amor}';  her  ways  and  graces  grew  stale  somehow;  then 
he  was  doubtful  about  Miss  Amory;  then  she  made  a  disturbance  in 
his  school,  lost  her  temper,  and  rapped  the  children's  fingers.  Blanche 
inspired  this  admiration  and  satiety,  somehow,  in  many  men.  She 
tried  to  please  them,  and  flung  out  all  her  graces  at  once ;  came  down 
to  them  v/ith  all  her  jewels  on,  all  her  smiles,  and  cajoleries,  and 
coaxings,  and  ogles.  Then  she  grew  tired  of  them,  and  of  trying  to 
please  them,  and  never  having  cared  about  them,  dropped  them :  and 
the  men  grew  tired  of  her,  and  dropped  her  too.  It  was  a  happy  night 
for  Belinda  when  Blanche  went  away;  and  her  husband,  with  rather  a 
blush  and  a  sigh,  said  "  he  had  been  deceived  in  her;  he  had  thought 
her  endowed  with  many  precious  gifts, he  feared  they  were  mere  tinsel; 

4.0 


626  FENDEXNIS. 

he  thought  she  had  been  a  right-thinking  person,  he  feared  she  had 
morel V  made  rehgion  an  amusement— she  certainly  had  quite  lost  her 
temper  to  the  schoolmistress,  and  beat  Polly  Rucker's  knuckles 
cruellv.''  Belinda  flew  to  his  arms,  there  was  no  question  about  the 
<'rave'or  the  veil  any  more.  He  tenderly  embraced  her  on  the  fore- 
head. "  There  is  none  like  thee,  my  Belinda,"  he  said,  throwing  his 
fine  eves  up  to  the  ceiling, "  precious  among  women ! "  As  for  Blanche, 
from  the  instant  she  lost  sight  of  him  and  Belinda,  she  never  thought 
or  cared  about  either  any  more. 

But  when  Arthur  went  down  to  pass  a  few  days  at  Tunbridge 
Wells  with  the  Begum,  this  stage  of  indifference  had  not  arrived  on 
Miss  Blanche's  part  or  on  that'  of  the  simple  clerg)-man.  Smirke 
believed  her  to  be  an  angel  and  wonder  of  a  woman.  Such  a 
perfection  he  had  never  seen,  and  sate  listening  to  her  music  in  the 
summer-evenings,  open-mouthed,  rapt  in  wonder,  tea-less,  and  bread- 
and-butterless.  Fascinating  as  he  had  heard  the  music  of  the  opera 
to  be — he  had  never  but  once  attended  an  exhibition  of  that  nature 
(which  he  mentioned  with  a  blush  and  a  sigh — it  was  on  that  day 
when  he  had  accompanied  Helen  and  her  son  to  the  play  at  Chatteris) 
— he  could  not  conceive  anything  more  delicious,  more  celestial,  he 
had  almost  said,  than  Miss  Amory's  music.  She  was  a  most  gifted 
being :  she  had  a  precious  soul :  she  had  the  most  remarkable  talents 
— to  all  outward  seeming,  the  most  heavenly  disposition,  (S:c.  <S:c.  It 
was  in  this  way  that,  being  then  at  the  height  of  his  own  fever  and 
bewitchment  for  Blanche,  Smirke  discoursed  to  Arthur  about  her. 

The  meeting  between  the  two  old  acquaintances  had  been  ver>- 
cordial.  Arthur  loved  anybody  who  loved  his  mother ;  Smirke  could 
speak  on  that  theme  with  genuine  feeling  and  emotion.  They  had 
a  hundred  things  to  tell  each  other  of  what  had  occurred  in  their 
lives.  "  Arthur  would  perceive,"  Smirke  said,  "  that  his— his  views  on 
church  matters  had  developed  themselves  since  their  acquaintance.'' 
Mrs.  Smirke,  a  most  exemplar^'  person,  seconded  them  with  all  her 
endeavours.  He  had  built  this  little  church  on  his  mothers  demise, 
who  had  left  him  provided  with  a  sufficiency  of  worldly  means. 
Though  in  the  cloister  himself,  he  had  heard  of  Arthur's  reputation. 
He  spoke  in  the  kindest  and  most  saddened  tone;  he  held  his  eyelids 
down,  and  bowed  his  fair  head  on  one  side.  Arthur  was  immensely 
amused  with  him ;  with  his  airs ;  with  his  follies  and  simplicity ;  with 
his  blank  stock  and  long  hair;  with  his  real  goodness,  kindness, 
friendliness  of  feeUng.  And  his  praises  of  Blanche  pleased  and 
surprised  our  friend  not  a  little,  and  made  him  regard  her  with  eyes 
of  particular  favour. 

The  truth  is,  Blanche  was  very  glad  to  see  Arthur;  as  one  is  ghd 
to  see  an  agreeable  man  in  the  co-mtrj^,  who  brings  down  the  last 


PENDENNIS.  627 

news  and  stories  from  the  great  city ;  who  can  talk  better  than  most 
country  folks,  at  least  can  talk  that  darling  London  jargon,  so  dear 
and  indispensable  to  London  people,  so  little  understood  by  persons 
out  of  the  world.  The  first  day  Pen  came  down,  he  kept  Blanche 
laughing  for  hours  after  dinner.  She  sang  her  songs  with  redoubled 
spirit.  She  did  not  scold  her  mother:  she  fondled  and  kissed  her, 
to  the  honest  Begum's  surprise.  When  it  came  to  bed-time,  she  said, 
"  Dtl/'cl  / "  with  the  prettiest  air  of  regret  possible ;  and  was  really 
quite  sorry  to  go  to  bed,  and  squeezed  Arthur's  hand  quite  fondly. 
He  on  his  side  gave  her  pretty  palm  a  very  cordial  pressure.  Our 
young  gentleman  was  of  that  turn,  that  eyes  ver)'  moderately  bright 
dazzled  him. 

"  She  is  very  much  improved,"  thought  Pen,  looking  out  into  the 
night,  "  very  much.  I  suppose  the  Begum  won't  mind  my  smoking 
with  the  window  open.  She's  a  jolly  good  old  woman,  and  Blanche  is 
immensely  improved.  I  liked  her  manner  with  her  mother  to-night. 
I  liked  her  laughing  way  with  that  stupid  young  cub  of  a  boy,  whom 
they  oughtn't  to  allow  to  get  tipsy.  She  sang  those  little  verses  ver)' 
prettily;  they  were  devilish  pretty  verses  too,  though  I  say  it  who 
shouldn't  say  it."  And  he  hummed  a  tune  which  Blanche  had  put  to 
some  verses  of  his  own.  "  Ah  !  what  a  fine  night !  How  jolly  a  cigar 
is  at  night !  How  pretty  that  little  Saxon  church  looks  in  the  moon- 
light !  I  wonder  what  old  Warrington's  doing  ?  Yes,  she's  a  da)-vlish 
nice  little  thing,  as  my  uncle  says." 

"  Oh,  heavenly !  "  Here  broke  out  a  voice  from  a  clematis-covered 
casement  near — a  girl's  voice :  it  was  the  voice  of  the  author  of  Afes 
Lannes. 

Pen  burst  into  a  laugh.  "  Don't  tell  about  my  smoking,"  he  said, 
leaning  out  of  his  own  window. 

"  Oh  !  go  on  !  I  adore  it,"  cried  the  lady  of  Mes  Larmes. 
"Heavenly  night!  Heavenly,  heavenly  moon!  but  I  must  shut  my 
window  and  not  talk  to  you,  on  account  of  les  vicrnrs!  How  droll  they 
are,  les  mams!  Adieu."  And  Pen  began  to  sing  the  Good-night  tc 
Don  Basilio. 

The  next  day  they  were  walking  in  the  fields  together,  laughing  and 
chattering — the  gayest  pair  of  friends.  They  talked  about  the  days  of 
their  youth,  and  Blanche  was  prettily  sentimental.  They  talked  about 
Laura,  dearest  Laura — Blanche  had  loved  her  as  a  sister:  was  she 
happy  with  that  odd  Lady  Rockminster  ?  Wouldn't  she  come  and 
stay  with  them  at  Tunbridge  ?  Oh,  what  walks  they  would  take 
together !  What  songs  they  would  sing — the  old,  old  songs.  Laura's 
voice  was  splendid.  Did  Arthur — she  must  call  him  Arthur — remem- 
ber the  songs  they  sang  in  the  haippy  old  days,  now  he  was  grown  such 
a  great  man,  and  had  such  a  succes?  &c.  &c. 


6:8  PENDEXNIS. 

And  the  day  after,  which  was  enlivened  with  a  happy  ramble 
ilirough  the  woods  to  Penshurst,  and  a  sight  of  that  pleasant  park  and 
hall,  came  that  conversation  with  the  curate  which  we  have  narrated, 
and  which  made  our  young  friend  think  more  and  more. 

"  Is  she  all  this  perfection?"  he  asked  himself.  "  Has  she  become 
serious  and  religious .''  Does  she  tend  schools  and  visit  the  poor  ?  Is 
she  kind  to  her  mother  and  brother  ?  Yes,  I  am  sure  of  that :  I  have 
seen  her."  And  walking  with  his  old  tutor  over  his  little  parish,  and 
going  to  visit  his  school,  it  was  with  inexpressible  delight  that  Pen 
found  Blanche  seated  instructing  the  children,  and  fancied  to  himself 
how  patient  she  must  be,  how  good-natured,  how  ingenuous,  how  really 
simple  in  her  tastes,  and  unspoiled  by  the  world. 

"And  do  you  really  like  the  countrj-?"  he  asked  her,  as  they 
walked  together. 

"  I  should  like  never  to  see  that  odious  city  again.  Oh,  Arthur — 
that  is,  Mr. — well,  Arthur,  then — one's  good  thoughts  grow  up  in  these 
sweet  woods  and  calm  solitudes,  like  those  flowers  which  won't  bloom 
in  London,  you  know.  The  gardener  comes  and  changes  our  balconies 
once  a  week.  I  don't  think  I  shall  bear  to  look  London  in  the  face 
again— its  odious,  smoky,  brazen  face !     But  heigho  ! " 

"  Why  that  sigh,  Blanche  V 

"  Never  mind  why." 

"  Yes  I  do  mind  why.    Tell  me,  tell  me  ever\'thing." 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  come  down ; "  and  a  second  edition  of  Mcs 
Soiipirs  came  out. 

"  You  don't  want  me,  Blanche  ? " 

'•'  I  don't  want  you  to  go  away.  I  don't  think  this  house  will  be 
ver)-  happy  without  you,  and  that's  why  I  wish  that  you  never  had 
come." 

Mes  Soupirs  were  here  laid  aside,  and  Mes  Larmes  had  begun. 

Ah !  What  answer  is  given  to  those  in  the  eyes  of  a  young  woman  .? 
What  is  the  method  employed  for  dr>-ing  them  ?  What  took  place  ? 
O  rmgdoves  and  roses,  O  dews  and  wild-flowers,  O  waving  greenwoods 
and  balmy  airs  of  summer !  Here  were  two  battered  London  rakes, 
takmg  themselves  in  for  a  moment,  and  fancying  that  thev  were  in  love 
with  each  other,  like  Phillis  and  Corjdon ! 

When  one  thinks  of  country  houses  and  countr>-  walks,  one 
wonders  that  any  man  is  left  unmarried. 


PENDENNIS.  629 


CHAPTER   LXIV. 

TEMPTATION. 

EASY  and  frank-spoken  as  Pcndennis  commonly  was  with  War- 
rington, how  came  it  that  Arthur  did  not  inform  the  friend  and 
depositary  of  all  his  secrets,  of  the  little  circumstances  which  had 
taken  place  at  the  villa  near  Tunbridge  Wells  ?  He  talked  about  the 
discovery  of  his  old  tutor  Smirke,  freely  enough,  and  of  his  wife,  and 
of  his  Anglo-Norman  church,  and  of  his  departure  from  Clapham  to 
Rome;  but  when  asked  about  Blanche,  his  answers  were  evasive  or 
general;  he  said  she  was  a  good-natured  clever  little  thing,  that 
rightly  guided  she  might  make  no  such  bad  wife  after  all,  but  that  he 
had  for  the  moment  no  intention  of  marriage,  that  his  days  of  romance 
were  over,  that  he  was  contented  with  his  present  lot,  and  so  forth. 

In  the  meantime  there  came  occasionally  to  Lamb  Court,  Temple, 
pretty  little  satin  envelopes,  superscribed  in  the  neatest  handwriting, 
and  sealed  with  one  of  those  admirable  ciphers,  which,  if  Warrington 
had  been  curious  enough  to  watch  his  friend's  letters,  or  indeed  if  the 
cipher  had  been  decipherable,  would  have  shown  George  that  Mr. 
Arthur  was  in  correspondence  with  a  young  lady  whose  initials  were 
B.  A.  To  these  pretty  little  compositions,  Mr.  Pen  replied  in  his  best 
and  gallantest  manner;  with  jokes,  with  news  of  the  town,  with  points 
of  wit,  nay,  with  pretty  little  verses  very  likely,  in  reply  to  the  versicles 
of  the  Muse  of  "  Mes  Larmes."  Blanche  we  know  rhymes  with 
''  branch,"  and  "  staunch,"  and  "  launch,"  and  no  doubt  a  gentleman  of 
Pen's  ingenuity  would  not  forego  these  advantages  of  position,  and 
would  ring  the  pretty  little  changes  upon  these  pleasing  notes.  Indeed 
we  believe  that  those  love-verses  of  Mr.  Pen's,  which  had  such  a 
pleasing  success  in  the  "  Rose-leaves,"  that  charming  Annual  edited 
by  Lady  Violet  Lebas,  and  illustrated  by  portraits  of  the  female 
nobility  by  the  famous  artist  Pinkney,  were  composed  at  this  period  of 
our  hero's  life ;  and  were  first  addressed  to  Blanche,  per  post,  before 
they  figured  in  print,  cornets  as  it  were  to  Pinkne/s  pictorial  garland. 

"  Verses  are  all  very  well,"  the  elder  Pendennis  said,  who  found 
Pen  scratching  down  one  of  these  artless  effusions  at  the  Club  as  he 
was  waiting  for  his  dinner;  "  and  letter-writing  if  mamma  allows  it, 
and  between  such  old  countr}-  friends  of  course  there  may  be  a  cor- 


630  PENDENNIS. 

respondence,  and  that  sort  of  thing— but  mind,  Pen,  and  don't  commit 
yourself,  my  boy.  For  who  knows  what  the  doose  may  happen  ?  The 
best  way  is  to  make  your  letters  safe.  I  never  wrote  a  letter  in  all  my 
life  that  would  commit  me,  and  demmy,  sir,  I  have  had  some  expe- 
rience of  women."  And  the  worthy  gentleman,  growing  more  garrulous 
and  confidential  with  his  nephew  as  he  grew  older,  told  many  affecting 
instances  of  the  evil  results  consequent  upon  this  want  of  caution  to 
many  persons  in  "society;" — how  from  using  too  ardent  expressions 
in  some  poetical  notes  to  the  widow  Naylor,  young  Spoony  had  sub- 
jected himself  to  a  visit  of  remonstrance  from  the  widow's  brother, 
Colonel  Flint ;  and  thus  had  been  forced  into  a  marriage  with  a  woman 
old  enough  to  be  his  mother:  how  when  Louisa  Salter  had  at  length 
succeeded  in  securing  young  Sir  John  Bird,  Hopwood,  of  the  Blues, 
produced  some  letters  which  Miss  S.  had  written  to  him,  and  caused  a 
withdrawal  on  Bird's  part,  who  afterwards  was  united  to  Miss  Stickney, 
of  Lyme  Regis,  &c.  The  Major,  if  he  had  not  reading,  had  plenty  of 
obsen-ation,  and  could  back  his  wise  saws  with  a  multitude  of  modern 
instances,  which  he  had  acquired  in  a  long  and  careful  perusal  of  the 
great  book  of  the  world. 

Pen  laughed  at  the  examples,  and  blushing  a  little  at  his  uncle's 
remonstrances,  said  that  he  would  bear  them  in  mind  and  be  cautious. 
He  blushed,  perhaps,  because  he  had  \)Oxt^q.  them  in  mind;  because 
he  was  cautious:  because  in  his  letters  to  Miss  Blanche  he  had  from 
instinct,  or  honesty  perhaps,  refrained  from  any  avowals  which  might 
compromise  him.  "Don't  you  remember  the  lesson  I  had,  sir,  in 
Lady  Mirabel's— Miss  Fotheringay's  affair?  I  am  not  to  be  caught 
again,  uncle,"  Arthur  said  with  mock  frankness  and  humility.  Old 
Pendennis  congratulated  himself  and  his  nephew  heartily  on  the 
latter's  prudence  and  progress,  and  was  pleased  at  the  position  which 
Arthur  was  taking  as  a  man  of  the  world. 

No  doubt,  if  Warrington  had  been  consulted,  his  opinion  would 
have  been  different :  and  he  would  have  told  Pen  that  the  boy's  foolish 
letters  were  better  than  the  man's  adroit  compliments  and  slippery 
gallantries;  that  to  win  the  woman  he  loves,  only  a  knave  or  a 
coward  advances  under  cover,  with  subterfuges,  and  a  retreat  secured 
behind  him:  but  Pen  spoke  not  on  this  matter  to  Mr.  Warrington, 
knowing  pretty  well  that  he  was  guilty,  and  what  his  friend's  verdict 
would  be. 

Colonel  Altamont  had  not  been  for  many  weeks  absent  on  his 
foreign  tour— Sir  Francis  Clavering  having  retired  meanwhile  into  the 
country  pursuant  to  his  agreement  with  Major  Pendennis— when  the 
ills  of  fate  began  to  fall  rather  suddenly  and  heavily  upon  the  sole 
remaining  partner  of  the  little  firm  of  Shepherd's  Inn.'  When  Strong, 
at  parting  with  Altamont,  refused  the  loan  proffered  by  the  latter  in 


PENDExWNIS.  631 

the  fulness  of  his  purse  and  the  generosity  of  his  heart,  he  made  such 
a  sacrifice  to  conscience  and  dcHcacy  as  caused  him  many  an  after 
twinge  and  pang;  and  he  felt — it  was  not  very  many  hours  in  his  life 
he  had  experienced  the  feeling — that  in  this  juncture  of  his  aflairs  he 
had  been  too  delicate  and  too  scrupulous.  Why  should  a  fellow  in 
want  refuse  a  kind  offer  kindly  made  ?  Why  should  a  thirsty  man 
decline  a  pitcher  of  water  from  a  friendly  hand,  because  it  was  a  little 
soiled  ?  Strong's  conscience  smote  him  for  refusing  what  the  other  had 
fairly  come  by,  and  generously  proffered :  and  he  thought  ruefully,  now 
it  was  too  late,  that  Altamont's  cash  would  have  been  as  well  in  his 
pocket  as  in  that  of  the  gambling-house  proprietor  at  Baden  or  Ems, 
with  whom  his  Excellency  would  infallibly  leave  his  Derby  winnings. 
It  was  whispered  among  the  tradesmen,  bill-discounters,  and  others  who 
had  commercial  dealings  with  Captain  Strong,  that  he  and  the  Baronet 
had  parted  company,  and  that  the  Captain's  "paper"  was  henceforth 
of  no  value.  The  tradesmen,  who  had  put  a  wonderful  confidence  in 
him  hitherto, — for  who  could  resist  Strong's  jolly  face  and  frank  and 
honest  demeanour .'' — now  began  to  pour  in  their  bills  with  a  cowardly 
mistrust  and  unanimity.  The  knocks  at  the  Shepherd's  Inn  chambers' 
door  were  constant,  and  tailors,  bootmakers,  pastrycooks  who  had 
furnished  dinners,  in  their  own  persons,  or  by  the  boys  their  repre- 
sentatives, held  levees  on  Strong's  stairs.  To  these  were  added  one 
or  two  persons  of  a  less  clamorous  but  far  more  sly  and  dangerous 
sort,— the  young  clerks  of  lawyers,  namely,  who  lurked  about  the  Inn, 
or  concerted  with  Mr.  Campion's  young  man  in  the  chambers  hard  by, 
having  in  their  dismal  pocket-books  copies  of  writs  to  be  served  on 
Edward  Strong,  requiring  him  to  appear  on  an  early  day  next  term 
before  our  Sovereign  Lady  the  Queen,  and  answer  to  &c.  &c. 

From  this  invasion  of  creditors,  poor  Strong,  who  had  not  a  guinea 
in  his  pocket,  had,  of  course,  no  refuge  but  that  of  the  Englishman's 
castle,  into  which  he  retired,  shutting  the  outer  and  inner  doors  upon 
the  enemy,  and  not  quitting  his  stronghold  until  after  nightfall. 
Against  this  outer  barrier  the  foe  used  to  come  and  knock  and  curse 
in  vain,  whilst  the  Chevalier  peeped  at  them  from  behind  the  little 
curtain  which  he  had  put  over  the  orifice  of  his  letter-box ;  and  had 
the  dismal  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  faces  of  furious  clerk  and  fiery 
dun,  as  they  daslied  up  against  the  door  and  retreated  from  it.  But 
as  they  could  not  be  always  at  his  gate,  or  sleep  on  his  staircase,  the 
enemies  of  the  Chevalier  sometimes  left  him  free. 

Strong,  when  so  pressed  by  his  commercial  antagonists,  was  not 
quite  alone  in  his  defence  against  them,  but  had  secured  for  himself 
an  ally  or  two.  His  friends  were  instructed  to  communicate  with 
him  by  a  system  of  private  signals :  and  they  thus  kept  the  garrison 
from  starving  by  bringing  in  necessar}'  supplies,  and  kept  up  Strong's 


(i32  PENDENNIS. 

heart  and  prevented  him  from  surrendering,  by  visiting  him  and 
cheering  him  in  his  retreat.  Two  of  xNed's  most  faithful  allies  were 
Huxter'and  Miss  Fanny  Bolton  :  when  hostile  visitors  were  prowling 
about  the  Inn,  Fanny's  little  sisters  were  taught  a  particular  cry  or 
jlidt'l,  which  they  innocently  whooped  in  the  court :  when  Fanny  and 
Huxter  came  up  to  visit  Strong,  they  archly  sang  this  same  note  at 
his  door;  when  that  barrier  was  straightway  opened,  the  honest  garri- 
son came  out  smiling,  the  provisions  and  the  pot  of  porter  were 
brought  in,  and  in  the  society  of  his  faithful  friends  the  beleaguered 
one  passed  a  comfortable  night.  There  are  some  men  who  could  not 
live  under  this  excitement,  but  Strong  was  a  brave  man,  as  we  have 
said,  who  had  seen  service  and  never  lost  heart  in  peril. 

But  besides  allies,  our  general  had  secured  for  himself,  under 
difficulties,  that  still  more  necessary  aid,— a  retreat.  It  has  been 
mentioned  in  a  former  part  of  this  historj',  how  Messrs.  Costigan  and 
Bows  lived  in  the  house  next  door  to  Captain  Strong,  and  that  the 
window  of  one  of  their  rooms  was  not  very  far  off  the  kitchen-window 
which  was  situated  in  the  upper  story  of  Strong's  chambers.  A 
leaden  water-pipe  and  gutter  served  for  the  two ;  and  Strong,  looking 
out  from  his  kitchen  one  day,  saw  that  he  could  spring  with  great 
ease  up  to  the  sill  of  his  neighbour's  window,  and  clamber  up  the  pipe 
which  communicated  from  one  to  the  other.  He  had  laughingly 
shown  this  refuge  to  his  chum,  Altamont ;  and  they  had  agreed  that 
it  would  be  as  well  not  to  mention  the  circumstance  to  Captain 
Costigan,  whose  duns  were  numerous,  and  who  would  be  constantly 
flying  down  the  pipe  into  their  apartments  if  this  way  of  escape  were 
shown  to  him. 

But  now  that  the  evil  days  were  come.  Strong  made  use  of  the 
passage,  and  one  afternoon  burst  in  upon  Bows  and  Costigan  with 
his  jolly  face,  and  explained  that  the  enemy  was  in  waiting  on  his 
staircase,  and  that  he  had  taken  this  means  of  giving  them  the  slip. 
So  while  Mr.  Mark's  aides-de-camp  were  in  waiting  in  the  passage  of 
No.  3,  Strong  walked  down  the  steps  of  No.  4,  dined  at  the  Albion, 
went  to  the  play,  and  returned  home  at  midnight,  to  the  astonish- 
ment of  Mrs.  Bolton  and  Fanny,  who  had  not  seen  him  quit  his 
chambers  and  could  not  concei\e  how  he  could  have  passed  the  line  of 
sentries. 

Strong  bore  this  siege  for  some  weeks  with  admirable  spirit  and 
resolution,  and  as  only  such  an  old  and  brave  soldier  would,  for  the 
pains  and  privations  which  he  had  to  endure  were  enough  to  depress 
any  man  of  ordinary  courage ;  and  what  vexed  and  "  riled  "  him  (to 
use  his  own  expression)  was  the  infernal  indifterence  and  cowardly 
ingratitude  of  Clavering,  to  whom  he  wrote  letter  after  letter,  which 
the  Baronet  never  acknowledged  by  a  single  word,  or  by  the  smallest 


PENDENNIS.  633 

remittance,  though  a  five-pound  note,  as  Strong  said,  at  that  time  would 
have  been  a  fortune  to  him. 

But  better  days  were  in  store  for  the  Chevalier,  and  in  the  midst  of 
his  despondency  and  perplexities  there  came  to  him  a  most  welcome 
aid.  "  Yes,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  good  fellow  here,"  said  Strong ; 
'  for  a  good  fellow  you  are,  Altamont,  my  boy,  and  hang  me  if  I  don't 
stand  by  you  as  long  as  I  live ;  I  think,  Pendennis,  it  would  have  been 
all  up  with  Ned  Strong.  It  was  the  fifth  week  of  my  being  kept  a 
prisoner,  for  I  couldn't  be  always  risking  my  neck  across  that  water- 
pipe,  and  taking  my  walks  abroad  through  poor  old  Cos's  window,  and 
my  spirit  was  quite  broken,  sir — dammy,  quite  beat,  and  I  was  thinking 
of  putting  an  end  to  myself,  and  should  have  done  it  in  another  week, 
when  who  should  drop  down  from  heaven  but  Altamont ! " 

"  Heaven  ain't  e.xactly  the  place,  Ned,"  said  Altamont.  "  I  came 
from  Baden-Baden,"  said  he, "  and  I'd  had  a  deuced  lucky  month  there, 
that's  all." 

"  Well,  sir,  he  took  up  Mark's  bill,  and  he  paid  the  other  fellows 
that  were  upon  me,  like  a  man,  sir,  that  he  did,"  said  Strong,  enthu- 
siastically. 

"  And  I  shall  be  very  happy  to  stand  a  bottle  of  claret  for  this  com- 
pany, and  as  many  more  as  the  company  chooses,"  said  Mr.  Altamont, 
with  a  blush.  "Hallo!  waiter,  bring  us  a  magnum  of  the  right  sort, 
do  you  hear  ?  And  we'll  drink  our  healths  all  round,  sir — and  may 
every  good  fellow  like  Strong  find  another  good  fellow  to  stand  by  him 
at  a  pinch.  That's  my  sentiment,  Mr.  Pendennis,  though  I  don't  like 
your  name." 

"  No  !     And  why  ? "  asked  Arthur. 

Strong  pressed  the  Colonel's  foot  under  the  table  here;  and  Alta- 
mont, rather  excited,  filled  up  another  bumper,  nodded  to  Pen,  drank 
oft'  his  wine,  and  said,  "  He  was  a  gentleman,  and  that  was  sufficient, 
and  they  were  all  gentlemen." 

The  meeting  between  these  "  all  gentlemen "  took  place  at  Rich- 
mond, whither  Pendennis  had  gone  to  dinner,  and  where  he  found  the 
Chevalier  and  his  friend  at  table  in  the  coffee-room.  Both  of  the  latter 
were  exceedingly  hilarious,  talkative,  and  excited  by  wine,  and  Strong, 
who  was  an  admirable  story-teller,  told  the  story  of  his  own  siege,  and 
adventures  and  escapes  with  great  liveliness  and  humour,  and  described 
the  talk  of  the  sheriff's  officers  at  his  door,  the  pretty  little  signals  of 
Fanny,  the  grotesque  exclamations  of  Costigan  when  the  Chevalier 
burst  in  at  his  window,  and  his  final  rescue  by  Altamont,  in  a  most 
graphic  manner,  and  so  as  greatly  to  interest  his  hearers. 

"  As  for  me,  it's  nothing,"  Altamont  said.  "  When  a  ship's  paid 
off,  a  chap  sper.ds  his  money,  you  know.     And  it's  the  fellers  at  the 


634  PENDENNIS. 

black  and  red  at  Baden-Baden  that  did  it.  I  won  a  good  bit  of 
money  there,  and  intend  to  win  a  good  bit  more,  don't  I,  Strong? 
I'm  going  to  take  him  with  me.  I've  got  a  system.  I'll  make  his 
fortune,  I  tell  you,  I'll  make  your  fortune,  if  you  like — dammy, 
everybody's  fortune.  But  what  I'll  do,  and  no  mistake,  boys,  I 
promise  you  :  I'll  put  in  for  that  little  Fanny.  Dammy,  sir,  what 
do  you  think  she  did.'  She  had  two  pound,  and  I'm  blest  if  she 
didn't  go  and  lend  it  to  Ned  Strong  !  Didn't  she,  Ned .'  Let's  drink 
her  health." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  Arthur,  and  pledged  this  toast  with  the 
greatest  cordiality. 

Mr.  Altamont  then  began,  with  the  greatest  volubility,  and  at 
great  length,  to  describe  his  system.  He  said  that  it  was  infallible, 
if  played  with  coolness;  that  he  had  it  from  a  chap  at  Baden,  who 
had  lost  by  it,  it  was  true,  but  because  he  had  not  capital  enough ;  if 
he  could  have  stood  one  more  turn  of  the  wheel,  he  w^ould  have  had  all 
his  money  back ;  that  he  and  several  more  chaps  were  going  to  make 
a  bank,  and  try  it ;  and  that  he  would  put  every  shilling  he  was  worth 
into  it,  and  had  come  back  to  this  country,  for  the  express  purpose  oi 
fetching  away  his  money,  and  Captain  Strong ;  that  Strong  should  play 
for  him:  that  he  could  trust  Strong  and  his  temper  much  better  than 
he  could  his  own,  and  much  better  than  Bloundell-Bloundell  or  the 
Italian  that  '"  stood  in."  As  he  emptied  his  bottle,  the  Colonel 
described  at  fuU  length  all  his  plans  and  prospects  to  Pen,  who  was 
interested  in  listening  to  his  stoiy,  and  the  confessions  of  his  daring 
and  lawless  good-humour. 

"  I  met  that  queer  fellow  Altamont  the  other  day,"  Pen  said  to  his 
uncle,  a  day  or  two  afterwards. 

"Altamont.?  What  Altamont?  There's  Lord  W^estport's  son,"' 
said  the  Major. 

"No,  no;  the  fellow  who  came  tipsy  into  Clavering's  dining-room 
one  day  when  we  were  there,"  said  the  nephew,  laughing ;  "  and  he 
said  he  did  not  like  the  name  of  Pendennis,  though  he  did  me  the 
honour  to  think  that  I  was  a  good  feUow." 

"  I  don't  know  any  man  of  the  name  of  Altamont,  I  give  you  my 
honour,"  said  the  impenetrable  Major ;  "  and  as  for  your  acquaintance, 
I  think  the  less  you  have  to  do  with  him,  the  better,  Arthur." 

Arthur  laughed  again.  "He  is  going  to  quit  the  countrj-,  and 
make  his  fortune  by  a  gambling  system.  He  and  my  amiable  college 
acquaintance,  Bloundell,  are  partners,  and  the  Colonel  takes  out 
Strong  with  him  as  aide-de-camp.  W^hat  is  it  that  binds  the  Chevaher 
and  Clavering,  I  wonder  ? " 

"  I  should  think,  mind  you.  Pen,  I  should  think— but  of  course  I 
have  only  the  idea-that  there  has  been  something  in  Clavering's 


PENDENNIS.  635 

previous  life  which  gives  these  fellows  and  some  others  a  certain 
power  over  him ;  and  if  there  should  be  such  a  secret,  which  is  no 
affair  of  ours,  my  boy,  dammy,  I  say,  it  ought  to  be  a  lesson  to  a  man 
to  keep  himself  straight  in  life,  and  not  to  give  any  man  a  chance 
over  him." 

"  Why,  I  think  you  have  some  means  of  persuasion  over  Clavering, 
uncle,  or  why  should  he  give  me  that  seat  in  Parliament  ?" 

"  Clavering  thinks  he  ain't  fit  for  Parliament,"  the  Major  answered. 
"  No  more  he  is.  What's  to  pre\cnt  him  from  putting  you  or  anybody 
else  into  his  place  if  he  likes  ?  Do  you  think  that  the  Government 
or  the  Opposition  would  make  any  bones  about  accepting  the  seat  if 
he  offered  it  to  them  ?  Why  should  you  be  more  squeamish  than  the 
first  men,  and  the  most  honourable  men,  and  men  of  the  highest  birth 
and  position  in  the  country,  begad  ? "  The  Colonel  had  an  answer  of 
this  kind  to  most  of  Pen's  objections,  and  Pen  accepted  his  uncle's 
replies,  not  so  much  because  he  believed  them,  but  because  he  wished 
to  believe  them.  We  do  a  thing — which  of  us  has  not  1 — not  because 
"  everybody  does  it,"'  but  because  we  like  it ;  and  our  acquiescence, 
alas  1  proves  not  that  everybody  is  right,  but  that  we  and  the  rest  of 
the  world  arc  poor  creatures  alike. 

At  his  next  visit  to  Tunbridgc,  Mr.  Pen  did  not  forget  to  amuse 
I^Iiss  Blanche  with  the  history  which  he  had  learned  at  Richmond  of 
the  Chevalier's  imprisonment,  and  of  Altamont's  gallant  rescue.  And 
after  he  had  told  his  tale  in  his  usual  satirical  way,  he  mentioned  with 
praise  and  emotion  little  Fanny's  generous  behaviour  to  the  Chevalier, 
and  Altamont's  enthusiasm  in  her  behalf. 

Miss  Blanche  was  somewhat  jealous,  and  a  good  deal  piqued  and 
curious  about  Fanny.  Among  the  many  confidential  little  communi- 
cations which  Arthur  made  to  Miss  Amory  in  the  course  of  their 
delightful  rural  drives  and  their  sweet  evening  walks,  it  may  be  sup- 
posed that  our  hero  would  not  forget  a  story  so  interesting  to  himself, 
and  so  likely  to  be  interesting  to  her,  as  that  of  the  passion  and  care 
of  the  poor  little  Ariadne  of  Shepherd's  Inn.  His  own  part  in  that 
drama  he  described,  to  do  him  justice,  with  becoming  modesty;  the 
moral  which  he  wished  to  draw  from  the  tale  being  one  in  accordance 
with  his  usual  satirical  mood,  viz.  that  women  get  over  their  first  loves 
quite  as  easily  as  men  do  (for  the  fair  Blanche,  in  their  intbnes  con- 
versations, did  not  cease  to  twit  Mr.  Pen  about  his  notorious  failure  in 
his  own  virgin  attachment  to  the  Fotheringay),  and,  number  one  being 
withdrawn,  transfer  themselves  to  number  two  without  much  difficulty. 
And  poor  little  Fanny  was  offered  up  in  sacrifice  as  an  instance  to 
prove  this  theory.  W'hat  griefs  she  had  endured  and  surmounted, 
what  bitter  pangs  of  hopeless  attachment  she  had  gone  through,  what 


636  PENDEXXIS. 

time  it  had  taken  to  heal  those  wounds  of  the  tender  little  bleeding 
heart,  Mr.  Pen  did  not  know,  or  perhaps  did  not  choose  to  know;  for 
he  was  at  once  modest  and  doubtful  about  his  capabilities  as  a  con- 
queror of  hearts,  and  averse  to  believe  that  he  had  executed  any 
dangerous  ravages  on  that  particular  one,  though  his  own  instance 
and  argument  told  against  himself  in  this  case;  for  if,  as  he  said, 
Miss  Fanny  was  by  this  time  in  love  with  her  surgical  adorer,  who 
had  neither  good  looks  nor  good  manners,  nor  wit,  nor  anvthing  but 
ardour  and  fidelity  to  recommend  him,  must  she  not,  in  her  first 
sickness  of  the  love  complaint,  have  had  a  serious  attack,  and  suffered 
keenly  for  a  man,  who  had  certainly  a  number  of  the  showy  qualities 
which  Mr.  Huxter  wanted  ? 

"  You  wicked  odious  creature,"  Miss  Blanche  said,  "  I  believe 
that  you  are  enraged  with  Fanny  for  being  so  impudent  as  to  forget 
you,  and  that  you  are  actually  jealous  of  Mr.  Huxter."  Perhaps 
Miss  Amory  was  right,  as  the  blush  which  came  in  spite  of  himself 
and  tingled  upon  Pendennis's  cheek  (one  of  those  blows  with  which 
a  man's  vanity  is  constantly  slapping  his  face,)  proved  to  Pen  that  he 
was  angry  to  think  he  had  been  superseded  by  such  a  rival.  By  such 
a  fellow  as  that !  without  any  conceivable  good  quality  !  Oh,  Mr. 
Pendennis  !  (although  this  remark  does  not  apply  to  such  a  smart 
fellow  as  you)  if  Nature  had  not  made  that  provision  for  each  sex 
in  the  credulity  of  the  other,  which  sees  good  qualities  where  none 
exist,  good  looks  in  donkeys'  ears,  wit  in  their  numskulls,  and  music 
in  their  bray,  there  would  not  have  been  near  so  much  marr^'ing 
and  giving  in  marriage  as  now  obtains,  and  as  is  necessar)-  for 
the  due  propagation  and  continuance  of  the  noble  race  to  which 
we  belong  ! 

"  Jealous  or  not,"  Pen  said,  "  and,  Blanche,  I  don't  say  no.  I  should 
have  liked  Fanny  to  come  to  a  better  end  than  that.  I  don't  like 
histories  that  end  in  that  cynical  way  ;  and  when  we  arrive  at  the  con- 
clusion of  the  story  of  a  pretty  girl's  passion,  to  find  such  a  figure  as 
Huxter's  at  the  last  page  of  the  tale.  Is  all  life  a  compromise,  my 
lady  fair,  and  the  end  of  the  battle  of  love  an  ignoble  surrender  ?  Is 
the  search  for  the  Cupid  which  my  poor  little  Psyche  pursued  in  the 
darkness — the  god  of  her  soul's  longing — the  god  of  the  blooming 
cheek  and  rainbow  pinions — to  result  in  Huxter,  smelling  of  tobacco 
and  gallipots  ?  I  wish,  though  I  don't  see  it  in  hfe,  that  people  could 
be  like  Jenny  and  Jessamy,  or  my  Lord  and  Lady  Clementina  in  the 
stor>'-books  and  fashionable  novels,  and  at  once  under  the  ceremony, 
and,  as  it  were,  at  the  parson's  benediction,  become  perfectly  hand- 
some and  good  and  happy  ever  after." 

"  And  don't  you  intend  to  be  good  and  happy,  pray,  Monsieur  le 
Misanthrope— and  are  you  very  discontented  with  your  lot— and  will 


PENDENNIS.  637 

your  marriage  be  a  compromise,"  asked  the  author  of  Mes  Lannes 
with  a  charming  moue;  "  and  is  your  Psyche  an  odious  vulgar  wretch  ? 
You  wicked  satirical  creature,  I  can't  abide  you  !  You  take  the  hearts 
of  young  things,  play  with  them,  and  fling  them  away  with  scorn.  You 
ask  for  love  and  trample  on  it.  You — you  make  me  cry,  that  you  do, 
Arthur,  and — and  don't— and  I  wonU  be  consoled  in  that  way — and  I 
think  Fanny  was  quite  right  in  leaving  such  a  heartless  creature." 

"  Again,  I  don't  say  no,"  said  Pen,  looking  very  gloomily  at 
Blanche,  and  not  offering  by  any  means  to  repeat  the  attempt  at 
consolation,  which  had  elicited  that  sweet  monosyllable  "  don't " 
from  the  young  lady.  "  I  don't  think  I  have  much  of  what  people 
call  heart ;  but  I  don't  profess  it.  I  made  my  venture  when  I  was 
eighteen,  and  lighted  my  lamp  and  went  in  search  of  Cupid.  And 
what  was  my  discovery  of  love  ! — a  vulgar  dancing-woman.  I  failed, 
as  everybody  does,  almost  everybody ;  only  it  is  luckier  to  fail  before 
marriage  than  after." 

"  Merci  du  choix,  Monsieur ^^  said  the  Sylphide,  making  a  curtsey. 

"  Look,  my  little  Blanche,"  said  Pen,  taking  her  hand,  and  with  his 
voice  of  sad  good-humour  ;  "  at  least  I  stoop  to  no  flatteries." 

"  Quite  the  contrary,"  said  Miss  Blanche. 

"  And  tell  you  no  foolish  lies,  as  vulgar  men  do.  Why  should  you 
and  I,  with  our  experience,  ape  romance  and  dissemble  passion?  I 
do  not  believe  Miss  Blanche  Amory  to  be  peerless  among  the  beau- 
tiful, nor  the  greatest  poetess,  nor  the  most  surpassing  musician,  any 
more  than  I  believe  you  to  be  the  tallest  woman  in  the  whole  world — 
like  the  giantess  whose  picture  we  saw  as  we  rode  through  the  fair 
yesterday.  But  if  I  don't  set  you  up  as  a  heroine,  neither  do  I  offer 
you  your  very  humble  servant  as  a  hero.  But  I  think  you  are — well, 
there,  I  think  you  are  very  sufficiently  good-looking." 

"  Merci,"  Miss  Blanche  said  with  another  curtsey. 

"  I  think  you  sing  charmingly.  Fm  sure  you're  clever,  I  hope 
and  believe  that  you  are  good-natured,  and  that  you  will  be  com- 
panionable." 

"  And  so,  provided  I  bring  you  a  certain  sum  of  money  and  a  seat 
in  Parliament,  you  condescend  to  fling  to  me  your  royal  pocket- 
handkerchief,"  said  Blanche.  "  Que  cVhomieur  I  We  used  to  call 
your  Highness  the  Prince  of  Fairoaks.  What  an  honour  to  think 
that  I  am  to  be  elevated  to  the  throne,  and  to  bring  the  seat  in 
Parliament  as  backsheesh  to  the  sultan  !  I  am  glad  I  am  clever, 
and  that  I  can  play  and  sing  to  your  liking  ;  my  songs  will  amuse  my 
lord's  leisure." 

"  And  if  thieves  are  about  the  house,"  said  Pen,  grimly  pursuing 
the  simile,  "  forty  besetting  thieves  in  the  shape  of  lurking  cares  and 
enemies  in  ambush  and  passions  in  arms,  my  Morgiana  will  dance 


63$  PENDENNIS. 

round  me  with  a  tambourine,  and  kill  all  my  rogues  and  thieves  with 
a  smile.  Won't  she?"  But  Pen  looked  as  if  he  did  not  believe  that 
she  would.  "  Ah,  Blanche,"  he  continued  after  a  pause,  "  don't  be 
angry;  don't  be  hurt  at  my  truth-telling.  Don't  you  see  that  I  always 
take  you  at  your  word .''  You  say  you  will  be  a  slave  and  dance— I 
say,  dance.  You  say,  '  I  take  you  with  what  you  bring : '  I  say,  '  I 
take  you  with  what  you  bring.'  To  the  necessary  deceits  and  hj'po- 
crisies  of  our  life,  why  add  any  that  are  useless  and  unnecessary?  If 
I  offer  myself  to  you  because  I  think  we  have  a  fair  chance  of  being 
happy  together,  and  because  by  your  help  I  may  get  for  both  of  us  a 
good  place  and  a  not  undistinguished  name,  why  ask  me  to  feign 
raptures  and  counterfeit  romance,  in  which  neither  of  us  believe  ?  Do 
you  want  me  to  come  wooing  in  a  Prince  PrettjTnan's  dress  from  the 
masquerade  warehouse,  and  to  pay  you  compliments  like  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  ?  Do  you  want  me  to  make  you  verses  as  in  the  days 
when  we  were — when  we  were  children  ?  I  will  if  you  like,  and  sell 
them  to  Bacon  and  Bungay  afterwards.  Shall  I  feed  my  pretty  prin- 
cess with  bofibons  ? '' 

"  Mais  f  adore  les  bojiboiis,  moi,"  said  the  little  Sylphide,  with  a 
queer  piteous  look. 

"  I  can  buy  a  hatful  at  Fortnum  and  Mason's  for  a  guinea.  And 
it  shall  have  its  bonbons,  its  pooty  little  sugar-plums,  that  it  shall," 
Pen  said  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  Nay,  my  dear — nay,  my  dearest  little 
Blanche,  don't  cry.  Dry  the  pretty  eyes,  I  can't  bear  that;"  and  he 
proceeded  to  offer  that  consolation  which  the  circumstance  required, 
and  which  the  tears,  the  genuine  tears  of  vexation,  which  now  sprang 
from  the  angry  eyes  of  the  author  of  "  Mes  Larmes  "  demanded. 

The  scornful  and  sarcastic  tone  of  Pendennis  quite  frightened  and 
overcame  the  girl.  "  I— I  don't  want  your  consolation.  I — I  never 
was — so— spoken  to  bef— by  any  of  my — my — by  anybody" — she 
sobbed  out,  with  much  simplicity. 

"Anybody!"  shouted  out  Pen,  with  a  savage  burst  of  laughter,  and 
Blanche  blushed  one  of  the  most  genuine  blushes  which  her  cheek  had 
ever  exhibited,  and  she  cried  out,  "  Oh,  Arthur,  vous  etes  un  Jiomme 
terrible  I"  She  felt  bewildered,  frightened,  oppressed,  the  worldly 
little  flirt  who  had  been  playing  at  love  for  the  last  dozen  years  of  her 
life,  and  yet  not  displeased  at  meeting  a  master. 

"Tell  me,  Arthur,"  she  said,  after  a  pause  in  this  strange  love- 
making,  "  why  does  Sir  Francis  Clavering  give  up  his  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment ? " 

"  A7i  fait,  why  does  he  give  it  to  me  ? "  asked  Arthur,  now  blushing 
in  his  turn. 

"You  always  mock  me,  sir,"  she  said.  "  If  it  is  good  to  be  in 
Parliament,  why  does  Sir  Francis  go  out?" 


PENDENNIS,  639 

"  My  uncle  has  talked  him  over.  He  always  said  that  you  were 
not  sufficiently  provided  for.  In  the — the  family  disputes,  when  your 
mamma  paid  his  debts  so  liberally,  it  was  stipulated,  I  suppose,  that 
you — that  is,  that  I — that  is,  upon  my  word,  I  don't  know  why  he  goes 
out  of  Parliament,"  Pen  said,  with  rather  a  forced  laugh.  "  You  see, 
Blanche,  that  you  and  I  are  two  good  little  children,  and  that  this 
marriage  has  been  arranged  for  us  by  our  mammas  and  uncles,  and 
that  we  must  be  obedient,  like  a  good  little  boy  and  girl." 

So,  when  Pen  went  to  London,  he  sent  Blanche  a  box  of  bonbons, 
each  sugar-plum  of  which  was  wrapped  up  in  ready-ijiade  French 
verses,  of  the  most  tender  kind ;  and,  besides,  despatched  to  her  some 
poems  of  his  own  manufacture,  quite  as  artless  and  authentic;  and  it 
was  no  wonder  that  he  did  not  tell  Warrington  what  his  conversations 
with  Miss  Amory  had  been,  of  so  delicate  a  sentiment  were  they,  and 
of  a  nature  so  necessarily  private. 

And  if,  like  many  a  worse  and  better  man,  Arthur  Pendennis,  the 
widow's  son,  was  meditating  an  apostasy,  and  going  to  sell  himself  to 
— we  all  know  whom — at  least  the  renegade  did  not  pretend  to  be  a 
believer  in  the  creed  to  which  he  was  ready  to  swear.  And  if  every 
woman  and  man  in  this  kingdom,  who  has  sold  her  or  himself  for 
money  or  position,  as  Mr.  Pendennis  was  about  to  do,  would  but 
purchase  a  copy  of  his  memoirs,  what  tons  of  volumes  Messrs.  Smith, 
Elder  and  Co.  would  sell ! 


64D  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   LXV. 

IN   WHICH   PEN    BEGINS    HIS   CANVASS. 

MELANCHOLY  as  the  great  house  at  Clavering  Park  had  been 
in  the  days  before  his  marriage,  when  its  bankrupt  proprietor 
was  a  refugee  in  foreign  lands,  it  was  not  much  more  cheerful  now 
when  Sir  Francis  Clavering  came  to  inhabit  it.  The  greater  part  of 
the  mansion  was  shut  up,  and  the  Baronet  only  occupied  a  few  of  the 
rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  where  his  housekeeper  and  her  assistant 
from  the  lodge  gate  waited  upon  the  luckless  gentleman  in  his  forced 
retreat,  and  cooked  a  part  of  the  game  which  he  spent  the  drear)- 
mornings  in  shooting.  Lightfoot,  his  man,  had  passed  over  to  my 
lady's  service ;  and,  as  Pen  was  informed  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Smirke, 
who  performed  the  ceremony,  had  executed  his  prudent  intention  of 
marrjing  Mrs.  Bonner,  my  lady's  woman,  who,  in  her  mature  years, 
was  stricken  with  the  charms  of  the  youth,  and  endowed  him  with  her 
savings  and  her  elderly  person.  To  be  landlord  and  landlady  of  the 
"  Clavering  Arms "  was  the  ambition  of  both  of  them ;  and  it  was 
agreed  that  they  were  to  remain  in  Lady  Clavering's  service  until 
quarter-day  arrived,  when  they  were  to  take  possession  of  their  hotel. 
Pen  graciously  promised  that  he  would  give  his  election  dinner  there, 
when  the  Baronet  should  vacate  his  seat  in  the  young  man's  favour ; 
and,  as  it  had  been  agreed  by  his  uncle,  to  whom  Clavering  seemed  to 
be  able  to  refuse  nothing,  Arthur  came  down  in  September  on  a  visit 
to  Clavering  Park,  the  owner  of  which  was  very  glad  to  have  a  com- 
panion who  would  relieve  his  loneliness,  and  perhaps  would  lend  him 
a  little  ready  money. 

Pen  furnished  his  host  with  these  desirable  supplies  a  couple  of 
days  after  he  had  made  his  appearance  at  Clavering :  and  no  sooner 
were  these  small  funds  in  Sir  Francis's  pocket,  than  the  latter  found 
he  had  business  at  Chatteris  and  the  neighbouring  watering-places,  of 

which shire  boasts  many,  and  went  off  to  see  to  his  affairs,  which 

were  transacted,  as  might  be  supposed,  at  the  count^'  race-grounds 
and  billiard-rooms.  Arthur  could  live  alone  well  enough,^  having 
many  mental  resources  and  amusements  which  did  not  require  other 
persons'  company:  he  could  walk  with  the  game-keeper  of  a  morning, 
and  for  the  evenings  there  were  plenty  of  books  and  occupation  for  a 


PENDEXNIS.  641 

literary  genius  like  Mr.  Arthur,  who  required  but  a  cigar  and  a  sheet 
of  paper  or  two  to  make  the  night  pass  away  pleasantly.  In  truth,  in 
two  or  three  days  he  had  found  the  society  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering 
perfectly  intolerable;  and  it  was  with  a  mischievous  eagerness  and 
satisfaction  that  he  offered  Clavering  the  little  pecuniary  aid  which  the 
latter,  according  to  his  custom,  solicited;  and  supplied  him  with  the 
means  of  taking  flight  from  his  own  house. 

Besides,  our  ingenious  friend  had  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the 
townspeople  of  Clavering,  and  with  the  voters  of  the  borough  which 
he  hoped  to  represent ;  and  he  set  himself  to  this  task  with  only  the 
more  eagerness,  remembering  how  unpopular  he  had  before  been  in 
Clavering,  and  determined  to  vanquish  the  odium  which  he  had  in- 
spired amongst  the  simple  people  there.  His  sense  of  humour  made 
him  delight  in  this  task.  Naturally  rather  reserved  and  silent  in  public, 
he  became  on  a  sudden  as  frank,  easy,  and  jovial,  as  Captain  Strong. 
He  laughed  with  everybody  who  would  exchange  a  laugh  with  him, 
shook  hands  right  and  left,  with  what  may  be  certainly  called  a 
dexterous  cordiality ;  made  his  appearance  at  the  market-day  and  the 
farmers'  ordinar)';  and,  in  fine,  acted  like  a  consummate  hypocrite, 
and  as  gentlemen  of  the  highest  birth  and  most  spotless  integrity  act 
when  they  wish  to  make  themselves  agreeable  to  their  constituents, 
and  have  some  end  to  gain  of  the  country  folks.  How  is  it  that  we 
allow  ourselves  not  to  be  deceived,  but  to  be  ingratiated  so  readily  by 
a  glib  tongue,  a  ready  laugh,  and  a  frank  manner  ?  We  know,  for  the 
most  part,  that  it  is  false  coin,  and  we  take  it:  we  know  that  it  is 
flattery,  which  it  costs  nothing  to  distribute  to  everybody,  and  we  had 
rather  have  it  than  be  without  it.  Friend  Pen  went  about  at  Clavering, 
laboriously  simple  and  adroitly  pleased,  and  quite  a  diff"erent  being 
from  the  scornful  and  rather  sulky  young  dandy  whom  the  inhabitants 
remembered  ten  years  ago. 

The  Rectory  was  shut  up.  Doctor  Portman  was  gone,  with  his 
gout  and  his  family,  to  Harrogate;  an  event  which  Pen  deplored  verj' 
much  in  a  letter  to  the  Doctor,  in  which,  in  a  few  kind  and  simple 
words,  he  expressed  his  regret  at  not  seeing  his  old  friend,  whose 
advice  he  wanted  and  w^hose  aid  he  might  require  some  day :  but  Pen 
consoled  himself  for  the  Doctor's  absence,  by  making  acquaintance 
with  Mr.  Simcoe,  the  opposition  preacher,  and  with  the  two  partners 
of  the  cloth-factory  at  Chatteris,  and  with  the  Independent  preacher 
there,  all  of  whom  he  met  at  the  Clavering  Athenaeum,  which  the 
Liberal  party  had  set  up  in  accordance  with  the  advanced  spirit  of  the 
age,  and  perhaps  in  opposition  to  the  aristocratic  old  reading-room, 
into  which  the  "  Edinburgh  Review"  had  once  scarcely  got  an  admis- 
sion, and  where  no  tradesmen  were  allowed  an  entrance.  He  pi'O- 
pitiated  the  younger  partner  of  the  cloth-factor>',  by  asking  him  to 

41 


1^.12 


PENDEXNIS. 


dine  in  a  friendly  way  at  the  Park;  he  complimented  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Simcoe  with  hares  and  partridges  from  the  same  quarter,  and  a 
request  to  read  her  husband's  last  sermon  ;  and  being  a  little  unwell 
one  day,  the  rascal  took  advantage  of  the  circumstance  to  show  his 
tonf^ue  to  Mr.  Huxter,  who  sent  him  medicines  and  called  the  next 
morning.  How  delighted  old  Pendennis  would  have  been  with  his  pupil ! 
Pen  himself  was  amused  with  the  sport  in  which  he  was  engaged,  and 
his  success  inspired  him  with  a  wicked  good-humour. 

And  yet,  as  he  walked  out  of  Clavering  of  a  night,  after  "  pre- 
siding" at  a  meeting  of  the  Athenseum,  or  working  through  an 
evening  with  JMrs.  Simcoe,  who,  with  her  husband,  was  awed  by  the 
young  Londoner's  reputation,  and  had  heard  of  his  social  successes ; 
as  he  passed  over  the  old  familiar  bridge  of  the  rushing  Brawl,  and 
heard  that  well-remembered  sound  of  waters  beneath,  and  saw  his 
own  cottage  of  Fairoaks  among  the  trees,  their  darkling  outlines 
clear  against  the  starlit  sky,  different  thoughts  no  doubt  came  to  the 
young  man's  mind,  and  awakened  pangs  of  grief  and  shame  there. 
There  still  used  to  be  a  light  in  the  windows  of  the  room  which  he 
remembered  so  well,  and  in  which  the  Saint  who  loved  him  had 
passed  so  many  hours  of  care  and  yearning  and  prayer.  He  turned 
away  his  gaze  from  the  faint  light  which  seemed  to  pursue  him  with 
its  wan  reproachful  gaze,  as  though  it  was  his  mother's  spirit  watching 
and  warning.  How  clear  the  night  was  !  how  keen  the  stars  shone; 
how  ceaseless  the  rush  of  the  flowing  waters ;  the  old  home  trees  whis- 
pered, and  waved  gently  their  dark  heads  and  branches  over  the  cottage 
roof.  Yonder,  in  the  faint  starlight  glimmer,  was  the  terrace  where,  as 
a  boy,  he  walked  of  summer  evenings,  ardent  and  trustful,  unspotted, 
untried,  ignorant  of  doubts  or  passions;  sheltered  as  yet  from  the 
world's  contamination  in  the  pure  and  anxious  bosom  of  love.  .  .  . 
The  clock  of  the  near  town  tolling  midnight,  with  a  clang,  disturbs  our 
wanderer's  reverie,  and  sends  him  onwards  towards  his  night's  resting- 
place,  through  the  lodge  into  Clavering  avenue,  and  under  the  dark 
arcades  of  the  rustling  limes. 

When  he  sees  the  cottage  the  next  time,  it  is  smiling  in  sunset ; 
those  bedroom  windows  are  open  where  the  light  was  burning  the  night 
before  ;  and  Pen's  tenant.  Captain  Stokes,  of  the  Bombay  Artillerj- 
(whose  mother,  old  Mrs.  Stokes,  lives  in  Clavering)  receives  his  land- 
lord's visit  with  great  cordiality  :  shows  him  over  the  grounds  and 
the  new  pond  he  has  made  in  the  back  garden  from  the  stables  ; 
talks  to  him  confidentially  about  the  roof  and  chimneys,  and  begs 
Mr.  Pendennis  to  name  a  day  when  he  will  do  himself  and  Mrs. 
Siokes  the  pleasure  to,  &c.  Pen,  who  has  been  a  fortnight  in  the 
tountry,  excuses  himself  for  not  having  called  sooner  upon  the  Captain 
by  frankly  owning  that  he  had  not  the  heart  to  do  it.     '•  I  under- 


PENDENNIS.  643 

stand  you,  sir,"  the  Captain  says  ;  and  Mrs.  Stokes,  who  had  shpped 
away  at  the  ring  of  the  bell  (how  odd  it  seemed  to  Pen  to  ring  the 
bell  !),  comes  down  in  her  best  gown,  surropnded  by  her  children. 
The  young  ones  clamber  about  Stokes  :  the  boy  jumps  into  an  arm- 
chair. It  was  Pen's  father's  arm-chair  ;  and  Arthur  remembers  the 
days  when  he  would  as  soon  have  thought  of  mounting  the  king's 
throne  as  of  seating  himself  in  that  arm-chair.  He  asks  Miss  Stokes 
— she  is  the  very  image  of  her  mamma — if  she  can  play  ?  He  should 
like  to  hear  a  tune  on  that  piano.  She  plays.  He  hears  the  notes  of 
the  old  piano  once  more,  enfeebled  by  age,  but  he  does  not  listen  to 
the  player.  He  is  listening  to  Laura  singing  as  in  the  days  of  their 
youth,  and  sees  his  mother  bending  and  beating  time  over  the  shoulder 
of  the  girl. 

The  dinner  at  Fairoaks  given  in  Pen's  honour  by  his  tenant,  and  at 
which  old  Mrs.  Stokes,  Captain  Glanders,  Squire  Hobnell,  and  the 
clergyman  and  his  lady  from  Tinkleton,  were  present,  was  very 
stupid  and  melancholy  for  Pen,  until  the  waiter  from  Clavering  (who 
aided  the  Captain's  stable-boy  and  Mrs.  Stokes's  butler),  whom  Pen 
remembered  as  a  street  boy,  and  who  was  now  indeed  barber  in  that 
place,  dropped  a  plate  over  Pen's  shoulder,  on  which  Mr.  Hobnell 
(who  also  employed  him)  remarked,  "  I  suppose,  Hodson,  your  hands 
are  slippery  with  bear's-grease.  He's  always  dropping  the  crockery 
about,  that  Hodson  is — haw,  haw!"  On  which  Hodson  blushed, 
and  looked  so  disconcerted,  that  Pen  burst  out  laughing  ;  and  good- 
humour  and  hilarity  were  the  order  of  the  evening.  For  the  second 
course,  there  was  a  hare  and  partridges  top  and  bottom,  and  when 
after  the  withdrawal  of  the  servants  Pen  said  to  the  Vicar  of  Tinkle- 
ton,  "  I  think,  Mr.  Stooks,  you  should  have  asked  Hodson  to  ctcl 
the  hare"  the  joke  was  taken  instantly  by  the  clergj'man,  who  was 
followed  in  the  course  of  a  few  minutes  by  Captains  Stokes  and 
Glanders,  and  by  Mr.  Hobnell,  who  arrived  rather  late,  but  with  an 
immense  guffaw. 

While  Mr.  Pen  was  engaged  in  the  country  in  the  above  schemes, 
it  happened  that  the  lady  of  his  choice,  if  not  of  his  affections, 
came  up  to  London  from  the  Tunbridge  villa  bound  upon  shopping 
expeditions  or  important  business,  and  in  company  of  old  ]\Irs.  Bonner, 
her  mother's  maid,  who  had  lived  and  quarrelled  with  Blanche 
many  times  since  she  was  an  infant,  and  who  now  being  about  to 
quit  Lady  Clavering's  service  for  the  hymeneal  state,  was  anxious 
like  a  good  soul  to  bestow  some  token  of  respectful  kindness  upon 
her  old  and  young  mistress  before  she  quitted  them  altogether, 
to  take  her  post  as  the  wife  of  Lightfoot,  and  landlady  of  the 
"  Clavering  Arms." 


544  PEXDEXXIS. 

The  honest  woman  took  the  beneiit  of  Miss  Amory's  taste  to 
make  the  purchase  which  she  intended  to  offer  her  ladyship  ;  and 
requested  the  fair  Blanche  to  choose  something  for  herself  that 
should  be  to  her  liking,  and  remind  her  of  her  old  nurse  who  had 
attended  her  through  many  a  wakeful  night,  and  eventful  teething, 
and  childish  fever,  and  who  loved  her  like  a  child  of  her  own  a'most. 
These  purchases  were  made,  and  as  the  nurse  insisted  on  buying 
an  immense  Bible  for  Blanche,  the  young  lady  suggested  that 
Bonner  should  purchase  a  large  "Johnson's  Dictionary"  for  her 
mamma.  Each  of  the  two  women  might  certainly  profit  by  the 
present  made  to  her. 

Then  Mrs.  Bonner  invested  money  in  some  bargains  in  linen- 
draper>',  which  might  be  useful  at  the  '•  Clavering  Arms,"  and  bought 
a  red  and  yellow  neck-handkerchief,  which  Blanche  could  see  at  once 
was  intended  for  Mr.  Lightfoot.  Younger  than  herself  by  at  least 
five-and-twenty  years,  Mrs.  Bonner  regarded  that  youth  with  a  fond- 
ness at  once  parental  and  conjugal,  and  loved  to  lavish  ornaments  on 
his  person,  which  already  glittered  with  pins,  rings,  shirt-studs,  and 
chains  and  seals,  purchased  at  the  good  creature's  expense. 

It  was  in  the  Strand  that  Mrs.  Bonner  made  her  purchases,  aided 
by  Miss  Blanche,  who  liked  the  fun  ver)-  well,  and  when  the  old  lady 
had  bought  everything  that  she  desired,  and  was  leaving  the  shop, 
Blanche,  with  a  smiling  face,  and  a  sweet  bow  to  one  of  the  shopmen, 
said,  "  Pray,  sir,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  show  us  the  way  to 
Shepherd's  Inn?" 

Shepherd's  Inn  was  but  a  few  score  of  yards  off,  Oldcastle  Street 
was  close  by,  the  elegant  young  shopman  pointed  out  the  turning 
which  the  young  lady  was  to  take,  and  she  and  her  companion  walked 
off  together. 

"  Shepherd's  Inn  !  what  can  you  want  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  Miss 
Blanche?"  Bonner  inquired.  "  Mr.  Strong  lives  there.  Do  you  want 
to  go  and  see  the  Captain  ? " 

■'  I  should  like  to  see  the  Captain  ver>'  well.  I  like  the  Captain  ; 
but  it  is  not  him  I  want.  I  want  to  see  a  dear  little  good  girl,  who  was 
very  kind  to— to  Mr.  Arthur  when  he  was  so  ill  last  year,  and  saved 
his  life  almost ;  and  I  want  to  thank  her,  and  ask  her  if  she  would  like 
anything.  I  looked  out  several  of  my  dresses  on  purpose  this  morning, 
Bonner  !"  and  she  looked  at  Bonner  as  if  she  had  a  right  to  admira- 
tion, and  had  performed  an  act  of  remarkable  virtue.  Blanche, 
indeed,  was  very  fond  of  sugar-plums  ;  she  would  have  fed  the  poor 
upon  them,  when  she  had  had  enough,  and  given  a  countr>--girl  a  ball- 
dress  when  she  had  worn  it  and  was  tired  of  it. 

"  Pittty  girl— pretty  young  woman  ! "  mumbled  Mrs.  Bonner.  "  I 
know  /  want  no  pretty  young  women  to  come  about  Lightfoot,"  and 


PENDENNIS.  «       645 

in  im<i?;ination  she  peopled  the  "  Clavering  Arms  "with  a  harem  of 
the  most  hideous  chambermaids  and  barmaids. 

Blanche,  with  pink  and  blue,  and  feathers,  and  flowers,  and 
trinkets,  and  a  shot-silk  dress,  and  a  wonderful  mantle,  and  a  charming 
parasoL,  presented  a  vision  of  elegance  and  beauty  such  as  bewil- 
dered the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Bolton,  who  was  scrubbing  the  Lodge  floor 
of  Shepherd's  Inn,  and  caused  Betsy-Jane  and  Ameliar-Ann  to  look 
with  delight. 

Blanche  looked  on  them  with  a  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  and 
protection  ;  like  Rowena  going  to  see  Rebecca  ;  like  Marie  Antoinette 
visiting  the  poor  in  the  famine  ;  like  the  Marchioness  of  Carabas 
alighting  from  her  carriage  and  four  at  a  pauper-tenant's  door,  and 
taking  from  John  No.  II.  the  packet  of  Epsom  salts  for  the  invalid's 
benefit,  carrying  it  with  her  own  imperial  hand  into  the  sick  room — 
Blanche  felt  a  queen  stepping  down  from  her  throne  to  visit  a  subject, 
and  enjoyed  all  the  bland  consciousness  of  doing  a  good  action. 

"  My  good  woman  !  I  want  to  see  Fanny — Fanny  Bolton  ;  is  she 
here  .?■•-•' 

Mrs.  Bolton  had  a  sudden  suspicion,  from  the  splendour  of 
Blanche's  appearance,  that  it  must  be  a  play-actor,  or  something 
worse. 

'•  What  do  you  want  with  Fanny,  pray?"  she  asked. 

"  I  am  Lady  Clavering's  daughter — you  have  heard  of  Sir  Francis 
Clavering  ?     And  I  wish  very  much  indeed  to  see  Fanny  Bolton." 

"  Pray  step  in,  Miss — Betsy-Jane,  where's  Fanny?' 

Betsy-Jane  said  Fanny  had  gone  into  No.  3  staircase,  on  which 
Mrs.  Bolton  said  she  was  probably  in  Strong's  rooms,  and  bade  the 
child  go  and  see  if  she  was  there. 

"In  Captain  Strong's  rooms!  oh,  let  us  go  to  Captain  Strong's 
rooms,"  cried  out  Miss  Blanche.  "  I  know  him  verj'  well.  You  dearest 
little  girl,  show  us  the  way  to  Captain  Strong ! "  cried  out  Miss  Blanche, 
for  the  floor  reeked  with  the  recent  scrubbing,  and  the  goddess  did  not 
like  the  smell  of  brown-soap. 

And  as  they  passed  up  the  stairs,  a  gentleman  by  the  name  of 
Costigan,  who  happened  to  be  swaggering  about  the  court,  and  gave  a 
very  knowing  look  with  his  "  oi "  under  Blanche's  bonnet,  remarked  to 
himself,  "  That's  a  devilish  foine  gyurll,  bedad,  goan  up  to  Sthrong 
and  Altamont:  they're  always  having  foine  g}'urlls  up  their  stairs." 

"Hallo — hwhat's  that?"  he  presently  said,  looking  up  at  the 
windows :  from  which  some  piercing  shrieks  issued. 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice  of  a  distressed  female  the  intrepid  Cos 
rushed  up  the  stairs  as  fast  as  his  old  legs  would  carry  him,  being 
nearly  overthrown  by  Strong's  servant,  who  was  descending  the  stair. 
Cos  found  the  outer  door  of  Strong's  chambers  open,  and  began  to 


646  PENDENNIS. 

thunder  at  the  knocker.  After  many  and  fierce  knocks,  the  inner  door 
was  partinllv  unclosed,  and  Strong's  head  appeared. 

"  It's  oi,  me  boy.     Hwhat's  that  noise,  Sthrong  ?"  asked  Costigan. 

"  Go  to  the  d—  ! "  was  the  only  answer,  and  the  door  was  shut  on 
Cos's  venerable  red  nose :  and  he  went  downstairs  muttering  threats 
at  the  indignity  offered  to  him,  and  vowing  that  he  would  have  satis- 
faction. In  the  meanwhile,  the  reader,  more  lucky  than  Captain 
Costigan,  will  have  the  privilege  of  being  made  acquainted  with  the 
secret  which  was  withheld  from  that  officer. 

It  has  been  said  of  how  generous  a  disposition  Mr.  Altamont  was, 
and  when  he  was  well  supplied  with  funds,  how  liberally  he  spent 
them.  Of  a  hospitable  turn,  he  had  no  greater  pleasure  than  drinking 
in  company  with  other  people ;  so  that  there  was  no  man  more  wel- 
come at  Greenwich  and  Richmond  than  the  Emissary  of  the  Nawaub 
of  Lucknow. 

Now  it  chanced  that  on  the  day  when  Blanche  and  Mrs.  Bonner 
ascended  the  staircase  to  Strong's  room  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  the  Colonel 

had  invited  Miss  Delaval  of  the Theatre  Royal,  and  her  mother, 

Mrs.  Hodge,  to  a  little  party  down  the  river,  and  it  had  been  agreed 
that  they  were  to  meet  at  Chambers,  and  thence  walk  down  to  a  port 
in  the  neighbouring  Strand  to  take  water.  So  that  when  Mrs.  Bonner 
and  "  Mes  Larmes  "  came  to  the  door,  where  Grady,  Altamont's  servant, 
was  standing,  the  domestic  said,  "  Walk  in,  ladies,"  with  the  utmost 
affabilit)",  and  led  them  into  the  room,  which  was  arranged  as  if  they 
had  been  expected  there.  Indeed,  two  bouquets  of  flowers,  bought  at 
Covent  Garden  that  morning,  and  instances  of  the  tender  gallantr\-  of 
Altamont,  were  awaiting  his  guests  upon  the  table.  Blanche  smelt  at  the 
bouquet,  and  put  her  pretty  little  dainty  nose  into  it,  and  tripped  about 
the  room,  and  looked  behind  the  curtains,  and  at  the  books  and  prints, 
and  at  the  plan  of  Clavering  estate  hanging  up  on  the  wall ;  and  had 
asked  the  servant  for  Captain  Strong,  and  had  almost  forgotten  his 
existence  and  the  errand  about  which  she  had  come,  namely,  to  visit 
Fanny  Bolton ;  so  pleased  was  she  with  the  new  adventure,  and  the  odd, 
strange,  delightful,  droll  little  idea  of  being  in  a  bachelor's  chambers 
in  a  queer  old  place  in  the  City ! 

Grady  meanwhile,  with  a  pair  of  ample  varnished  boots,  had 
disappeared  into  his  masters  room.  Blanche  had  hardly  the  leisure 
to  remark  how  big  the  boots  were,  and  how  unlike  Mr.  Strong's. 

"  The  women's  come,'"  said  Grady,  helping  his  master  to  the 
boots. 

"  Did  you  ask  'em  if  they  would  take  a  glass  of  anything  ?''  asked 
Altamont. 

Grady  came  out—"  He  says,  will  you  take  anuhing  to  drink.?"  the 


PENDENNIS.  647 

domestic  asked  of  them ;  at  which  Blanche,  amused  with  the  artless 
question,  broke  out  into  a  pretty  little  laugh,  and  asked  of  Mrs.  Bonner, 
"  Shall  we  take  anything  to  drink?" 

"  Well,  you  may  take  it  or  lave  it,"  said  Mr.  Grady,  who  thought 
his  offer  slighted,  and  did  not  like  the  contemptuous  manners  of  the 
new-comers,  and  so  left  them. 

"Will  we  take  anything  to  drink?"  Blanche  asked  again:  and 
again  began  to  laugh. 

"  Grady,"  bawled  out  a  voice  from  the  chamber  within  : — a  voice 
that  made  Mrs.  Bonner  start. 

Grady  did  not  answer  :  his  song  was  heard  from  afar  off,  from  the 
kitchen,  his  upper  room,  where  Grady  was  singing  at  his  work. 

"  Grady,  my  coat ! "  again  roared  the  voice  from  within. 

"  Why,  that  is  not  Mr.  Strong's  voice,"  said  the  Sylphide,  still  half 
laughing.  "  Grady  my  coat ! — Bonner,  who  is  Grady  my  coat  ?  We 
ought  to  go  away." 

Bonner  still  looked  quite  puzzled  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  which 
she  had  heard. 

The  bedroom  door  here  opened,  and  the  individual  who  had  called 
out  "  Grady,  my  coat,"  appeared  without  the  garment  in  question. 

He  nodded  to  the  women,  and  walked  across  the  room.  "  I  beg 
your  pardon,  ladies.  Grady,  bring  my  coat  down,  sir!  Well,  my 
dears,  it's  a  fine  day,  and  we'll  have  a  jolly  lark  at " 

He  said  no  more;  for  here  Mrs.  Bonner,  who  had  been  looking  at 
him  with  scared  eyes,  suddenly  shrieked  out,  "  Amory !  Amory ! "  and 
fell  back  screaming  and  fainting  in  her  chair. 

The  man,  so  apostrophised,  looked  at  the  woman  an  instant,  and, 
rushing  up  to  Blanche,  seized  her  and  kissed  her.  "  Yes,  Betsy,"  he 
said,  "by  G —  it  is  me.  Mary  Bonner  knew  me.  What  a  fine  gal 
we've  growTi!  But  it's  a  secret,  mind.  I'm  dead,  though  I'm  your 
father.     Your  poor  mother  don't  know  it.     What  a  pretty  gal  we've 

grown !     Kiss  me — kiss  me  close,  my  Betsy !     D it,  I  love  you  : 

I'm  your  old  father." 

Betsy  or  Blanche  looked  quite  bewildered,  and  began  to  scream 
too — once,  twice,  thrice ;  and  it  was  her  piercing  shrieks  which  Captain 
Costigan  heard  as  he  walked  the  court  below. 

At  the  sound  of  these  shrieks  the  perplexed  parent  clasped  his 
hands  (his  wristbands  were  open,  and  on  one  bra\vny  arm  you  could 
see  letters  tattooed  in  blue),  and  rushing  to  his  apartment,  came  back 
with  an  eau-de-Cologne  bottle  from  his  grand  silver  dressing-case,  with 
the  fragrant  contents  of  which  he  began  liberally  to  sprinkle  Bonner 
and  Blanche. 

The  screams  of  these  women  brought  the  other  occupants  of  the 
chambers  into  the  room:  Grady  from  his  kitchen,  and  Strong  from 


64S  PEiXDENNIS. 

his  apartment  in  the  upper  stor>-.  The  latter  at  once  saw  from  the 
aspect  of  the  two  women  what  had  occurred. 

"  Grady,  go  and  wait  in  the  court,"  he  said,  "  and  if  anybody  comes 
— you  understand  me." 

"  Is  it  the  play-actress  and  her  mother  ?"  said  Grady. 

"  Yes — confound  you — say  that  there's  nobody  in  Chambers,  and 
the  party's  oft'  for  to-day." 

"Shall  I  say  that,  sir.''  and  after  I  bought  them  bokays  ?"  asked 
Grady  of  his  master. 

"  Yes,"  said  Amory,  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot ;  and  Strong  going 
to  the  door,  too,  reached  it  just  in  time  to  prevent  the  entrance  of 
Captain  Costigan,  who  had  mounted  the  stair. 

The  ladies  from  the  theatre  did  not  have  their  treat  to  Greenwich, 
nor  did  Blanche  pay  her  visit  to  Fanny  Bolton  on  that  day.  And  Cos, 
who  took  occasion  majestically  to  inquire  of  Grady  what  the  mischief 
was,  and  who  was  crying.? — had  for  answer  that  'twas  a  woman, 
another  of  them,  and  that  they  were,  in  Grady's  opinion,  the  cause  of 
'most  all  the  mischief  in  the  world. 


PENDENNIS.  649 


CHAPTER   LXVI. 

IN  WHICH   PEN   BEGINS  TO   DOUBT  HIS  ELECTION. 

WHILST  Pen,  in  his  own  county,  was  thus  carrying  on  his  selfish 
plans  and  parliamentary  schemes,  news  came  to  him  that 
Lady  Rockminster  had  arrived  at  Baymouth,  and  had  brought  with 
her  our  friend  Laura.  At  the  announcement  that  Laura  his  sister  was 
near  him,  Pen  felt  rather  guilty.  His  wish  was  to  stand  higher  in  her 
esteem,  perhaps,  than  in  that  of  any  other  person  in  the  world.  She 
was  his  mother's  legacy  to  him.  He  was  to  be  her  patron  and  pro- 
tector in  some  sort.  How  would  she  brave  the  news  which  he  had  to 
tell  her;  and  how  should  he  explain  the  plans  which  he  was  medi- 
tating.'' He  felt  as  if  neither  he  nor  Blanche  could  bear  Laura's 
dazzling  glance  of  calm  scrutiny,  and  as  if  he  would  not  dare  to  dis- 
close his  worldly  hopes  and  ambitions  to  that  spotless  judge.  At  her 
arrival  at  Baymouth,  he  wrote  a  letter  thither  which  contained  a  great 
number  of  fine  phrases  and  protests  of  affection,  and  a  great  deal  of  easy 
satire  and  railler)';  in  the  midst  of  all  which  Mr.  Pen  could  not  help 
feeling  that  he  was  in  a  panic,  and  that  he  was  acting  like  a  rogue  and 
hypocrite. 

How  was  it  that  a  simple  countr)--girl  should  be  the  object  of  fear 
and  trembling  to  such  an  accomplished  gentleman  as  Mr.  Pen.''  His 
worldly  tactics  and  diplomacy,  his  satire  and  knowledge  of  the  world, 
could  not  bear  the  test  of  her  purity,  he  felt  somehow.  And  he  had 
to  own  to  himself  that  his  affairs  were  in  such  a  position,  that  he  could 
not  tell  the  truth  to  that  honest  soul.  As  he  rode  from  Clavering  to 
Baymouth  he  felt  as  guilty  as  a  school-boy,  who  doesn't  know  his 
lesson  and  is  about  to  face  the  awful  master.  For  is  not  truth  the 
master  always,  and  does  she  not  have  the  power  and  hold  the  book? 

Under  the  charge  of  her  kind,  though  somewhat  wayward  and 
absolute  patroness.  Lady  Rockminster,  Laura  had  seen  somewhat  of 
the  world  in  the  last  year,  had  gathered  some  accomplishments,  and 
profited  by  the  lessons  of  society.  Many  a  girl  who  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  that  too  great  tenderness  in  which  Laura's  early  life  had 
been  passed,  would  have  been  unfitted  for  the  changed  existence  which 
she  now  had  to  lead.  Helen  worshipped  her  two  children,  and  thought, 
as  home-bred  women  will,  that  all  the  v.-orld  was  made  for  them,  or. to 


650  PENDENNIS. 

be  considered  after  them.  She  tended  Laura  mth  a  watchfulness  of 
affection  which  never  left  her.  If  she  had  a  headache,  the  widow  was 
as  alarmed  as  if  there  had  never  been  an  aching  head  before  in  the 
world.  She  slept  and  woke,  read,  and  moved  under  her  mother's  fond 
superintendence,  which  was  now  withdrawn  from  her,  along  with  the 
tender  creature  whose  anxious  heart  would  beat  no  more.  And  painful 
moments  of  gi'ief  and  depression  no  doubt  Laura  had,  when  she  stood 
in  the  great  careless  world  alone.  Nobody  heeded  her  griefs  or  her 
solitude.  She  was  not  quite  the  equal,  in  social  rank,  of  the  lady 
whose  companion  she  was,  or  of  the  friends  and  relatives  of  the 
imperious,  but  kind  old  dowager.  Some  very  likely  bore  her  no  good- 
^vill — some,  perhaps,  slighted  her :  it  might  have  been  that  ser\-ants 
were  occasionally  rude  ;  their  mistress  certainly  was  often.  Laura  not 
seldom  found  herself  in  family  meetings,  the  confidence  and  familiarity 
of  which  she  felt  were  interrupted  by  her  intrusion ;  and  her  sensitive- 
ness of  course  was  wounded  at  the  idea  that  she  should  give  or  feel 
this  annoyance.  How  many  governesses  are  there  in  the  world, 
thought  cheerful  Laura, — how  many  ladies,  whose  necessities  make 
them  slaves  and  companions  by  profession  I  What  bad  tempers  and 
coarse  unkindness  have  not  these  to  encounter !  How  infinitely  better 
my  lot  is  Avith  these  really  kind  and  affectionate  people  than  that  of 
thousands  of  unprotected  girls !  It  was  with  this  cordial  spirit  that 
our  young  lady  adapted  herself  to  her  new  position ;  and  went  in 
advance  of  her  fortune  with  a  trustful  smile. 

Did  you  ever  know  a  person  who  met  Fortune  in  that  way,  whom 
the  goddess  did  not  regard  kindly .?  Are  not  even  bad  people  won  by 
a  constant  cheerfulness  and  a  pure  and  affectionate  heart  ?  When  the 
babes  in  the  wood,  in  the  ballad,  looked  up  fondly  and  trustfully  at 
those  notorious  rogues  whom  their  uncle  had  set  to  make  away  with 
the  little  folks,  we  all  know  how  one  of  the  rascals  relented,  and  made 
away  with  the  other— not  having  the  heart  to  be  cruel  to  so  much 
innocence  and  beauty.  Oh,  happy  they  who  have  that  \-irgin  loving 
trust  and  sweet  smiling  confidence  in  the  world,  and  fear  no  evil 
because  they  think  none !  Miss  Laura  Bell  was  one  of  these  fortunate 
persons  ;  and  besides  the  gentle  widows  little  cross,  which,  as  wc  have 
seen.  Pen  gave  her,  had  such  a  sparkling  and  brilliant  koh-i-noor  in  her 
bosom,  as  is  even  more  precious  than  that  famous  jewel ;  for  it  not 
only  fetches  a  price,  and  is  retained  by  its  o\vner  in  another  world, 
where  diamonds  are  stated  to  be  of  no  value,  but  here,  too,  is  of  in- 
estimable worth  to  its  possessor ;  is  a  talisman  against  evil,  and  lightens 
up  the  darkness  of  Hfe,  like  Cogia  Hassan's  famous  stone. 

So  that  before  Miss  Bell  had  been  a  year  in  Lady  Rockminster's 
house,  there  was  not  a  single  person  in  it  whose  love  she  had  not  won 
by  the  use  of  this  talisman.    From  the  old  lady  to  the  lowest  dependent 


PEA'DENNIS.  651 

of  her  bounty,  Laura  had  secured  the  good-will  of  everybody.  With 
a  mistress  of  such  a  temper,  my  lady's  woman  (who  had  endured  her 
mistress  for  forty  years,  and  had  been  clawed  and  scolded  and  jibed 
every  day  and  night  in  that  space  of  time)  could  not  be  expected  to 
have  a  good  temper  of  her  own ;  and  was  at  first  angry  against  Miss 
Laura,  as  she  had  been  against  her  ladyship's  fifteen  preceding  com- 
panions. But  when  Laura  was  ill  at  Paris,  this  old  woman  nursed  her 
in  spite  of  her  mistress,  who  was  afraid  of  catching  the  fever,  and 
absolutely  fought  for  her  medicine  with  Martha  from  Fairoaks,  now 
advanced  to  be  Miss  Laura's  own  maid.  As  she  was  recovering, 
Grandjean  the  chef  wanted  to  kill  her  by  the  number  of  delicacies 
which  he  dressed  for  her,  and  wept  when  she  ate  her  first  slice  of 
chicken.  The  Swiss  major-domo  of  the  house  celebrated  Miss  Bell's 
praises  in  almost  every  European  language,  which  he  spoke  with 
indifferent  incorrectness ;  the  coachman  was  happy  to  drive  her  out; 
the  page  cried  when  he  heard  she  was  ill ;  and  Calverley  and  Cold- 
stream (those  two  footmen,  so  large,  so  calm  ordinarily,  and  so  difficult 
to  move)  broke  out  into  extraordinary  hilarity  at  the  news  of  her 
convalescence,  and  intoxicated  the  page  at  a  wine-shop,  to  fete  Laura's 
recovery.  Even  Lady  Diana  Pynsent  (our  former  acquaintance  Mr. 
Pynsent  had  married  by  this  time),  who  had  had  a  considerable  dislike 
to  Laura  for  some  time,  was  so  enthusiastic  as  to  say  that  she  thought 
Miss  Bell  was  a  very  agreeable  person,  and  that  grandmamma  had  a 
great  trouvaille  in  her.  All  this  kindness  Laura  had  acquired,  not  by 
any  arts,  not  by  any  flattery,  but  by  the  simple  force  of  good-nature, 
and  by  the  blessed  gift  of  pleasing  and  being  pleased. 

On  the  one  or  two  occasions  when  he  had  seen  Lady  Rockminster, 
the  old  lady,  who  did  not  admire  him,  had  been  ver>'  pitiless  and  abrupt 
with  our  young  friend,  and  perhaps  Pen  expected  when  he  came  to 
Baj-mouth  to  find  Laura  installed  in  her  house  in  the  quality  of  humble 
companion,  and  treated  no  better  than  himself  When  she  heard  of  his 
arrival  she  came  running  downstairs,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  she  did  not 
embrace  him  in  the  presence  of  Calverley  and  Coldstream :  not  that 
those  gentlemen  ever  told  :  if  thefrachis  orbish.a.d  come  to  a  smash,  if 
Laura,  instead  of  kissing  Pen,  had  taken  her  scissors  and  snipped  off 
his  head — Calverley  and  Coldstream  would  have  looked  on  impavidly, 
without  allowing  a  grain  of  powder  to  be  disturbed  by  the  calamity. 

Laura  had  so  much  improved  in  health  and  looks  that  Pen  could 
not  but  admire  her.  The  frank  eyes  which  met  his  beamed  with  good 
health ;  the  cheek  which  he  kissed  blushed  with  beauty.  As  he  looked 
at  her,  artless  and  graceful,  pure  and  candid,  he  thought  he  had  never 
seen  her  so  beautiful.  Why  should  he  remark  her  beauty  now  so 
much,  and  remark  too  to  himself  that  he  had  not  remarked  it  sooner  ? 
He  took  her  fair  trustful  hand  and  kissed  it  fondly :  he  looked  in  her 


652  PENDENNIS. 

bright  clear  eyes,  and  read  in  them  that  kindhng  welcome  which  he 
was  always  sure  to  find  there.  He  was  affected  and  touched  by  the 
tender  tone  and  the  pure  sparkling  glance ;  their  innocence  smote  him 
somehow  and  moved  him. 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me,  Laura— sister .' "  said  Pen,  "  I  don't 
deserve  that  you  should — that  you  should  be  so  kind  to  me." 

"  Mamma  left  you  to  me,"  she  said,  stooping  down  and  brushing 
his  forehead  with  her  lips  hastily.  "  You  know  you  were  to  come  to 
me  when  you  were  in  trouble,  or  to  tell  me  when  you  were  very  happy : 
that  was  our  compact,  Arthur,  last  year,  before  we  parted.  Are  you 
very  happy  now,  or  are  you  in  trouble,  which  is  it  ?"  and  she  looked  at 
him  with  an  arch  glance.  "  Do  you  like  going  into  Parliament  ?  Do 
you  intend  to  distinguish  yourself  there  ?  How  I  shall  tremble  for 
your  first  speech  ! " 

"  Do  you  know  about  the  Parliament  plan,  then .'"  Pen  asked. 

"  Know  ? — all  the  world  knows  !  I  have  heard  it  talked  about  many 
times.  Lady  Rockminster^s  doctor  talked  about  it  to-day.  I  dare  say 
it  will  be  in  the  Chatteris  paper  to-morrow.  It  is  all  over  the  county 
that  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  of  Clavering,  is  going  to  retire,  in  "behalf 
of  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis,  of  Fairoaks;  and  that  the  young  and  beau- 
tiful Miss  Blanche  Amor)^  is " 

"  What !  that  too  ? "  asked  Pendennis. 

"  That,  too,  dear  Arthur.  Toitt  se  satt,  as  somebody  would  say, 
whom  I  intend  to  be  very  fond  of;  and  who  I  am  sure  is  ver}'  clever 
and  pretty.  I  have  had  a  letter  from  Blanche.  The  kindest  of  letters. 
She  speaks  so  warmly  of  you,  Arthur !  I  hope— I  know  she  feels  what 
she  writes.— When  is  it  to  be,  Arthur  ?  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  ?  I 
may  come  and  live  with  you  then,  mayn't  I  V 

"  My  home  is  yours,  dear  Laura,  and  everything  I  have,"'  Pen 
said.  "  If  I  did  not  tell  you,  it  was  because — because — I  do  not  know : 
nothing  is  decided  yet.  No  words  have  passed  between  us.  But  you 
think  Blanche  could  be  happy  with  me — dont  you  ?  Not  a  romantic 
fondness,  you  know.  I  have  no  heart,  I  think  ;  I've  told  her  so :  only 
a  sober-sided  attachment :— and  want  my  wife  on  one  side  of  the  fire 
and  my  sister  on  the  other,— Parliament  in  the  session  and  Fairoal^.--  in 
the  holidays,  and  my  Laura  never  to  leave  me  until  somebody  who  has 
a  right  comes  to  take  her  away." 

Somebody  who  has  a  right— somebody  with  a  right  .^  Why  did 
Pen,  as  he  looked  at  the  girl  and  slowly  uttered  the  words,  begin  to 
feel  angr>'  and  jealous  of  the  invisible  somebody  with  the  right  to  take 
her  away  ?  Anxious,  but  a  minute  ago,  how  she  would  take  the  news 
regarding  his  probable  arrangements  with  Blanche,  Pen  was  hurt 
somehow  that  she  received  the  intelligence  so  easilv,  and  took  his 
happiness  for  granted. 


PENDENNIS.  653 

"  Until  somebody  comes,"  Laura  said,  with  a  laugh,  "  I  will  stay 
at  home  and  be  aunt  Laura,  and  take  care  of  the  children  when 
Blanche  is  in  the  world.  I  have  arranged  it  all.  I  am  an  excellent 
housekeeper.  Do  you  know  I  have  been  to  market  at  Paris  with 
Mrs.  Beck,  and  have  taken  some  lessons  from  M.  Grandjean  ?  And  I 
have  had  some  lessons  in  Paris  in  singing  too,  with  the  money  which 
you  sent  me,  you  kind  boy :  and  I  can  sing  much  better  now :  and  I 
have  learned  to  dance,  though  not  so  well  as  Blanche,  and  when  j'ou 
become  a  Minister  of  State,  Blanche  shall  present  me  : "  and  with  this, 
and  with  a  provoking  good-humour,  she  performed  for  him  the  last 
Parisian  curtsey. 

Lady  Rockminster  came  in  whilst  this  curtsey  was  being  per- 
formed, and  gave  to  Arthur  one  finger  to  shake ;  which  he  took,  and 
over  which  he  bowed  as  well  as  he  could,  which,  in  truth,  was  very 
clumsily. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  be  married,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady. 

"  Scold  him,  Lady  Rockminster,  for  not  telling  us,"  Laura  said, 
going  away:  which,  in  truth,  the  old  lady  began  instantly  to  do.  "  So 
you  are  going  to  marry,  and  to  go  into  Parliament  in  place  of  that 
good-for-nothing  Sir  Francis  Clavering.  I  wanted  him  to  give  my 
grandson  his  seat — why  did  he  not  give  my  grandson  his  seat  ?  I  hope 
you  are  to  have  a  great  deal  of  money  with  Miss  Amory.  /  wouldn't 
take  her  without  a  great  deal." 

"  Sir  Francis  Clavering  is  tired  of  Parliament,"  Pen  said,  wincing, 
"  and — and  I  rather  wish  to  attempt  that  career.  The  rest  of  the 
story  is  at  least  premature." 

"  I  wonder,  when  you  had  Laura  at  home,  you  could  take  up  with 
such  an  affected  little  creature  as  that,"  the  old  lady  continued. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  Miss  Amory  does  not  please  your  ladyship,"  said 
Pen,  smiling. 

"  You  mean — that  it  is  no  affair  of  mine,  and  that  I  am  not 
going  to  marry  her.  Well,  I'm  not,  and  Fm  very  glad  I  am  not — a 
little  odious  thing— when  I  think  that  a  man  could  prefer  her  to  my 
Laura,  Fve  no  patience  with  him,  and  so  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis." 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  see  Laura  with  such  favourable  eyes," 
Pen  said. 

•'  You  are  very  glad,  and  you  are  very  sorry.  What  does  it  matter, 
sir,  whether  you  are  very  glad  or  \trf  sorry?  A  young  man  who 
prefers  Miss  Amory  to  Miss  Bell  has  no  business  to  be  sorry  or  glad. 
A  young  man  who  takes  up  with  such  a  crooked  lump  of  affectation 
as  that  little  Amory, — for  she  is  crooked,  I  tell  you  she  is, — after 
seeing  my  Laura,  has  no  right  to  hold  up  his  head  again.  Where  is 
your  friend  Bluebeard  ?     The  tall  young  man,  I  mean, — Warrington, 


654 


PENDENNIS 


isn't  his  name?  Why  does  he  not  come  down,  and  marry  Laura? 
What  do  the  young  men  mean  by  not  marrying  such  a  girl  as  that  ? 
They  all  marry  for  money  now.  You  are  all  selfish  and  cowards.  We 
ran  away  with  each  other,  and  made  foolish  matches  in  my  time.  I 
have  no  patience  with  the  young  men !  When  I  was  at  Paris  in  the 
winter,  I  asked  all  the  three  attaches  at  the  Embassy  why  they  did  not 
fall  in  love  with  Miss  Bell?  They  laughed— they  said  they  wanted 
money.     You  are  all  selfish — you  are  all  cowards.'' 

"  I  hope  before  you  offered  Miss  Bell  to  the  attaches,''  said  Pen, 
with  some  heat,  "  you  did  her  the  favour  to  consult  her  ?  " 

"  Miss  Bell  has  only  a  little  money.  Miss  Bell  must  marry  soon. 
Somebody  must  make  a  match  for  her,  sir ;  and  a  girl  can't  offer  her- 
self," said  the  old  dowager,  with  great  state.  "  Laura,  my  dear,  I've 
been  telling  your  cousin  that  all  the  young  men  are  selfish ;  and  that 
there  is  not  a  pennyworth  of  romance  left  among  them.  He  is  as  bad 
as  the  rest." 

"  Have  you  been  asking  Arthur  why  he  won't  marry  me  ? "  said 
Laura,  with  a  smile,  coming  back,  and  taking  her  cousin's  hand.  (She 
had  been  away,  perhaps,  to  hide  some  traces  of  emotion,  which  she  did 
not  wish  others  to  see.)  "  He  is  going  to  marry  somebody  else ;  and  I 
intend  to  be  very  fond  of  her,  and  to  go  and  live  with  them,  provided 
he  then  does  not  ask  every  bachelor  who  comes  to  his  house,  why  he 
does  not  marry  me  ? " 

The  terrors  of  Pen's  conscience  being  thus  appeased,  and  his 
examination  before  Laura  over  without  any  reproaches  on  the  part 
of  the  latter.  Pen  began  to  find  that  his  duty  and  inclination  led  him 
constantly  to  Baymouth,  where  Lady  Rockminster  informed  him  that 
a  place  was  always  reserved  for  him  at  her  table,  "  And  I  recom- 
mend you  to  come  often,"  the  old  lady  said,  "  for  Grandjean  is  an 
excellent  cook,  and  to  be  with  Laura  and  me  wiU  do  your  manners 
good.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  are  always  thinking  about  yourself. 
Don't  blush  and  stammer — almost  all  young  men  are  always  thinking 
about  themselves.  My  sons  and  grandsons  always  were  until  I  cured 
them.  Come  here,  and  let  us  teach  you  to  behave  properly ;  you  will 
not  have  to  carve,  that  is  done  at  the  side-table,  Hecker  will  give  you 
as  much  wine  as  is  good  for  you ;  and  on  days  when  you  are  vet)-  good 
and  amusing  you  shall  have  some  champagne.  Hecker,  mind  what  I 
say.  Mr.  Pendennis  is  Miss  Laura's  brother;  and  you  will  make  him 
comfortable,  and  see  that  he  does  not  have  too  much  wine,  or  disturb 
me  whilst  I  am  taking  my  nap  after  dinner.  You  are  selfish :  I  intend 
to  cure  you  of  being  selfish.  You  will  dine  here  when  you  have  no 
other  engagements ;  and  if  it  rains,  you  had  better  put  up  at  the  hotel." 
As  long  as  the  good  lady  could  order  everybody  round  about  her,  sns 


PENDEANIS.  655 

was  not  hard  to  please;  and  all  the  slaves  and  subjects  of  her  little 
dowager  court  trembled  before  her,  but  loved  her. 

She  did  net  receive  a  very  numerous  or  brilliant  society.  The 
doctor,  of  course,  was  admitted,  as  a  constant  and  faithful  visitor: 
the  vicar  and  his  curate;  and  on  public  days  the  vicar's  wife  and 
daughters,  and  some  of  the  season  visitors  at  Baymouth  were  received 
at  the  old  lady's  entertainments :  but  generally  the  company  was  a 
small  one,  and  Mr.  Arthur  drank  his  wine  by  himself,  when  Lady 
Rockminster  retired  to  take  her  doze,  and  to  be  played  and  sung  to 
sleep  by  Laura  after  dinner. 

"  If  my  music  can  give  her  a  nap,"  said  the  good-natured  girl, 
"  ought  I  not  to  be  very  glad  that  I  can  do  so  much  good  ?  Lady 
Rockminster  sleeps  very  little  of  night :  and  I  used  to  read  to  her  until 
1  fell  ill  at  Paris,  since  when  she  will  not  hear  of  my  sitting  up." 

"  Why  did  you  not  write  to  me  when  you  were  ill  ?  "  asked  Pen,  with 
a  blush. 

"  What  good  could  you  do  me  ?  I  had  ?vlartha  to  nurse  me :  and 
the  doctor  every  day.  You  are  too  busy  to  write  to  women  or  to 
think  about  them.  You  have  your  books  and  your  newspapers,  and 
your  politics  and  your  railroads  to  occupy  you.  I  wrote  when  I 
was  well." 

And  Pen  looked  at  her,  and  blushed  again,  as  he  remembered  ihat, 
during  all  the  time  of  her  illness,  he  had  never  written  to  her,  and  had 
scarcely  thought  about  her. 

In  consequence  of  his  relationship,  Pen  was  free  to  walk  and  ride 
with  his  cousin  constantly,  and  in  the  course  of  those  walks  and  rides, 
could  appreciate  the  sweet  frankness  of  her  disposition,  and  the  truth, 
simplicity,  and  kindliness  of  her  fair  and  spotless  heart.  In  their 
mother's  life-time,  she  had  never  spoken  so  openly  or  so  cordially  as 
now.  The  desire  of  poor  Helen  to  make  a  union  between  her  two 
children,  had  caused  a  reserve  on  Laura's  part  towards  Pen ;  for  which, 
under  the  altered  circumstances  of  Arthurs  life,  there  was  now  no 
necessity.  He  was  engaged  to  another  woman;  and  Laura  became  his 
sister  at  once, — hiding,  or  banishing  from  herself,  any  doubts  which 
she  might  have  as  to  his  choice;  striving  to  look  cheerfully  forward, 
and  hope  for  his  prosperity ;  promising  herself  to  do  all  that  affection 
might  do  to  make  her  mother's  darling  happy. 

Their  talk  was  often  about  the  departed  mother.  And  it  was  from 
a  thousand  stories  which  Laura  told  him  that  Arthur  was  made  aware 
how  constant  and  absorbing  that  silent  maternal  devotion  had  been ; 
which  had  accompanied  him  present  and  absent  through  life,  and  had 
only  ended  with  the  fond  widow's  last  breath.  One  day  the  people  in 
Clavering  saw  a  lad  in  charge  of  a  couple  of  horses  at  the  churchyard- 
gate  :  and  it  was  told  over  the  place  that  Pen  and  Laura  had  visited 


656  PENDEX.XIS. 

Helen's  grave  together.  Since  Arthur  had  come  down  into  the  country, 
lie  had  been  there  once  or  twice :  but  the  sight  of  the  sacred  stone  had 
brought  no  consolation  to  him.  A  guilty  man  doing  a  guilty  deed:  a 
mere°speculator,  content  to  lay  down  his  faith  and  honour  for  a  fortune 
and  a  worldly  career ;  and  owning  that  his  life  was  but  a  contemptible 
surrender— what  right  had  he  in  the  holy  place.?— what  booted  it  to 
him  that  others  in  the  world  he  lived  in  were  no  better  than  himself? 
Arthur  and  Laura  rode  by  the  gates  of  Fairoaks ;  and  he  shook  hands 
with  his  tenant's  children,  playing  on  the  lawn  and  the  terrace— Laura 
looked  steadily  at  the  cottage  wall,  at  the  creeper  on  the  porch  and  the 
magnolia  growing  up  to  her  window.  "  Mr.  Pendennis  rode  by  to-day," 
one  of  the  boys  told  his  mother,  "  with  a  lady,  and  he  stopped  and 
talked  to  us,  and  he  asked  for  a  bit  of  honeysuckle  off  the  porch,  and 
gave  it  the  lady.  I  couldn't  see  if  she  was  pretty ;  she  had  her  veil 
down.     She  was  riding  one  of  Cramp's  horses,  out  of  Baymouth." 

As  they  rode  over  the  downs  between  home  and  Baymouth,  Pen 
did  not  speak  much,  though  they  rode  ver>'  close  together.  He  was 
thinking  what  a  mockery  life  was,  and  how  men  refuse  happiness  when 
they  may  have  it ;  or,  having  it,  kick  it  down ;  or  barter  it,  with  their 
eyes  open,  for  a  little  worthless  money  or  beggarly  honour.  And  then 
the  thought  came,  what  does  it  matter  for  the  little  space }  The  lives 
of  the  best  and  purest  of  us  are  consumed  in  a  vain  desire,  and  end  in 
a  disappointment :  as  the  dear  soul's  who  sleeps  in  her  grave  yonder. 
She  had  her  selfish  ambition,  as  much  as  Caesar  had;  and  died, 
baulked  of  her  life's  longing.  The  stone  covers  over  our  hopes  and" 
our  memories.  Our  place  knows  us  not.  "  Other  people's  children 
are  playing  on  the  grass,"  he  broke  out,  in  a  hard  voice,  "  where  you 
and  I  used  to  play,  Laura.  And  you  see  how  the  magnolia  we  planted 
has  grown  up  since  our  time.  I  have  been  round  to  one  or  two  of  the 
cottages  where  my  mother  used  to  visit.  It  is  scarcely  more  than  a 
year  that  she  is  gone,  and  the  people  whom  she  used  to  benefit  care 
no  more  for  her  death  than  for  Queen  Anne's.  We  are  all  selfish :  the 
world  is  selfish :  there  are  but  a  few  e.xceptions,  like  you,  my  dear,  to 
shine  like  good  deeds  in  a  naughty  world,  and  make  the  blackness 
more  dismal." 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  speak  in  that  way,  Arthur,""  said  Laura, 
looking  down  and  bending  her  head  to  the  honeysuckle  on  her  breast. 
"  When  you  told  the  little  boy  to  give  me  this,  you  were  not  selfish." 

"  A  pretty  sacrifice  I  made  to  get  it  for  you ! "  said  the  sneerer. 

"  But  your  heart  was  kind  and  full  of  love  when  you  did  so.  One 
cannot  ask  for  more  than  love  and  kindness  ;  and  if  you  think  humbly 
of  yourself,  Arthur,  the  love  and  kindness  are  not'  diminished— are 
they?     I  often  thought  our  dearest  mother  spoilt  you  at  home,  by 


PENDENNIS.  657 

worshipping  you;  and  that  if  you  are — I  hate  the  word — what  you 
say,  her  too  great  fondness  helped  to  make  you  so.  And  as  for  the 
world,  when  men  go  out  into  it,  I  suppose  they  cannot  be  otherwise 
than  selfish.  You  have  to  fight  for  yourself,  and  to  get  on  for  your- 
self, and  to  make  a  name  for  yourself.  Mamma  and  your  uncle  both 
encouraged  you  in  this  ambition.  If  it  is  a  vain  thing,  why  pursue  it  ? 
I  suppose  such  a  clever  man  as  you  intend  to  do  a  great  deal  of  good 
to  the  country,  by  going  into  Parliament,  or  you  would  not  wish  to  be 
there.  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  are  in  the  House  of 
Commons  ? " 

"  Women  don't  understand  about  politics,  my  dear,"  Pen  said, 
sneering  at  himself  as  he  spoke. 

"  But  why  don't  you  make  us  understand  ?  I  could  never  tell 
about  Mr.  Pynsent  why  he  should  like  to  be  there  so  much.  He  is 
not  a  clever  man — " 

"  He  certainly  is  not  a  genius,  Pynsent,"  said  Pen, 

"  Lady  Diana  says  that  he  attends  Committees  all  day;  that  then 
again  he  is  at  the  House  all  night;  that  he  always  votes  as  he  is  told; 
that  he  never  speaks ;  that  he  will  never  get  on  beyond  a  subordinate 
place,  and,  as  his  grandmother  tells  him,  he  is  choked  with  red-tape. 
Are  you  going  to  follow  the  same  career,  Arthur  ?  What  is  there  in  it 
so  brilliant  that  you  should  be  so  eager  for  it .''  I  would  rather  that 
you  should  stop  at  home,  and  write  books — good  books,  kind  books, 
with  gentle  kind  thoughts,  such  as  you  have,  dear  Arthur,  and  such 
as  might  do  people  good  to  read.  And  if  you  do  not  win  fame,  what 
then  ?  You  own  it  is  vanity,  and  you  can  live  very  happily  without  it. 
I  must  not  pretend  to  advise :  but  I  take  you  at  your  own  word  about 
the  world;  and  as  you  own  it  is  wicked,  and  that  it  tires  you,  ask  you 
why  you  don't  leave  it  ?  " 

"  And  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  asked  Arthur. 

"  I  would  have  you  bring  your  wife  to  Fairoaks  to  live  there,  and 
study,  and  do  good  round  about  you.  I  would  like  to  see  your  owtl 
children  playing  on  the  lawn,  Arthur,  and  that  we  might  pray  in  our 
mothers  church  again  once  more,  dear  brother.  If  the  world  is  a 
temptation,  are  we  not  told  to  pray  that  we  may  not  be  led  into  it  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  Blanche  would  make  a  good  wife  for  a  petty  country 
gentleman  ?  Do  you  think  I  should  become  the  character  very  well, 
Laura  ? "  Pen  asked.  "  Remember  temptation  walks  about  the  hedge- 
rows as  well  as  the  city  streets :  and  idleness  is  the  greatest  tempter 
of  all." 

"  What  does — does  Mr.  Warrington  say?"  said  Laura,  as  a  blush 
mounted  up  to  her  cheek,  and  of  which  Pen  saw  the  fervour,  though 
Laura's  veil  fell  over  her  face  to  hide  it. 

Pen  rode  on  by  Laura's  side  silently  for  awhile.     George's  name  so 

42 


658 


PENDENNIS. 


mentioned  brought  back  the  past  to  him,  and  the  thoughts  which  he 
had  once  had  regarding  George  and  Laura.  WTiy  should  the  recur- 
rence of  the  thought  agitate  him,  now  that  he  knew  the  union  was 
impossible  ?  Why  should  he  be  curious  to  know  if,  during  the  months 
of  their  intimacy,  Laura  had  felt  a  regard  for  Warrington  ?  From 
that  day  until  the  present  time  George  had  never  alluded  to  his  story, 
and  Arthur  remembered  now  that  since  then  George  had  scarcely  ever 
mentioned  Laura's  name. 

At  last  he  came  close  to  her.  "Tell  me  something,  Laura,"  he 
said. 

She  put  back  her  veil  and  looked  at  him.  "  What  is  it,  Arthur  ? " 
she  asked — though  from  the  tremor  of  her  voice  she  guessed  very 
well. 

"  Tell  me — but  for  George's  misfortune — I  never  knew  him  speak 
of  it  before  or  since  that  day — would  you — would  you  have  given  him 
— what  you  refused  me  ? " 

"  Yes,  Pen,"  she  said,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  He  deserved  you  better  than  I  did,"  poor  Arthur  groaned  forth, 
with  an  indescribable  pang  at  his  heart.  "  I  am  but  a  selfish  wretch, 
and  George  is  better,  nobler,  truer,  than  I  am.     God  bless  him  ! " 

"  Yes,  Pen,"  said  Laura,  reaching  out  her  hand  to  her  cousin,  and 
he  put  his  arm  round  her,  and  for  a  moment  she  sobbed  on  his 
shoulder. 

The  gentle  girl  had  had  her  secret,  and  told  it.  In  the  widows 
last  journey  from  Fairoaks,  when  hastening  with  her  mother  to  Arthurs 
sick  bed,  Laura  had  made  a  different  confession ;  and  it  was  only 
when  Warrington  told  his  own  storj-,  and  described  the  hopeless  con- 
dition of  his  life,  that  she  discovered  how  much  her  feelings  had 
changed,  and  with  what  tender  sjTnpathy,  with  what  great  respect, 
delight,  and  admiration  she  had  grown  to  regard  her  cousin's  friend. 
Until  she  knew  that  some  plans  she  might  have  dreamed  of  were 
impossible,  and  that  Warrington,  reading  her  heart,  perhaps,  had  told 
his  melancholy  stor>'  to  warn  her,  she  had  not  asked  herself  whether 
it  was  possible  that  her  affections  could  change ;  and  had  been  shocked 
and  scared  by  the  discover}^  of  the  truth.  How  should  she  have  told 
it  to  Helen,  and  confessed  her  shame  ?  Poor  Laura  felt  guilty  before 
her  friend,  with  the  secret  which  she  dared  not  confide  to  her ;  felt  as 
if  she  had  been  ungrateful  for  Helen's  love  and  regard ;  felt  as  if  she 
had  been  wickedly  faithless  to  Pen  in  withdrawing  that  love  from  him 
which  he  did  not  even  care  to  accept ;  humbled  even  and  repentant 
before  Warrington,  lest  she  should  have  encouraged  him  by  undue 
sympathy,  or  shown  the  preference  which  she  began  to  feel. 

The  catastrophe  which  broke  up  Laura's  home,  and  the  grief  and 
anguish  which  she  felt  for  her  mother's  death,  gave  her  little  leisure 


PENDENNIS.  659 

for  thoughts  more  selfish;  and  by  the  time  she  ralhed  from  that  grief 
the  minor  one  was  also  almost  cured.  It  was  but  for  a  moment  that 
she  had  indulged  a  hope  about  Warrington.  Her  admiration  and 
respect  for  him  remained  as  strong  as  ever.  But  the  tender  feeling 
with  which  she  knew  she  had  regarded  him  was  schooled  into  such 
calmness,  that  it  may  be  said  to  have  been  dead  and  passed  away. 
The  pang  which  it  left  behind  was  one  of  humility  and  remorse.  "  Oh, 
how  wicked  and  proud  I  was  about  Artliur,"  she  thought;  "how  self- 
confident  and  unforgiving !  I  never  forgave  from  my  heart  this  poor 
girl,  who  was  fond  of  him,  or  him  for  encouraging  her  love ;  and  I 
have  been  more  guilty  than  she,  poor,  little,  artless  creature!"  I,  pro- 
fessing to  love  one  man,  could  listen  to  another  only  too  eagerly ;  and 
would  not  pardon  the  change  of  feelings  in  Arthur,  whilst  I  myself 
was  changing  and  unfaithful."  And  so  humiliating  herself  and 
acknowledging  her  weakness,  the  poor  girl  sought  for  strength  and 
refuge  in  the  manner  in  which  she  had  been  accustomed  to  look  for 
them. 

She  had  done  no  wrong :  but  there  are  some  folks  who  suffer  for 
a  fault  ever  so  trifling  as  much  as  others  whose  stout  consciences  can 
walk  under  crimes  of  almost  any  weight ;  and  poor  Laura  chose  to 
fancy  that  she  had  acted  in  this  delicate  juncture  of  her  life  as  a  very 
great  criminal.  She  determined  that  she  had  done  Pen  a  great  injury 
by  withdrawing  that  love  which,  privately  in  her  mother's  hearing,  she 
had  bestowed  upon  him ;  that  she  had  been  ungrateful  to  her  dead 
benefactress  by  ever  allowing  herself  to  think  of  another  or  of  violating 
her  promise ;  and  that,  considering  her  own  enormous  crimes,  she 
ought  to  be  very  gentle  in  judging  those  of  others,  whose  temptations 
were  much  greater,  ver\'  likely :  and  whose  motives  she  could  not 
understand. 

A  year  back,  Laura  would  have  been  indignant  at  the  idea  that 
Arthur  should  marry  Blanche :  and  her  high  spirit  would  have  risen 
as  she  thought  that  from  worldly  motives  he  should  stoop  to  one  so 
unworthy.  Now  when  the  news  was  brought  to  her  of  such  a  chance 
(the  intelligence  was  given  to  her  by  old  Lady  Rockminster,  whose 
speeches  were  as  direct  and  rapid  as  a  slap  on  the  face),  the  humbled 
girl  winced  a  little  at  the  blow,  but  bore  it  meekly,  and  with  a  despe- 
rate acquiescence.  "  He  has  a  right  to  marry;  he  knows  a  great  deal 
more  of  the  world  than  I  do,"  she  argued  with  herself.  "  Blanche  may 
not  be  so  light-minded  as  she  seemed,  and  who  am  I  to  be  her  judge? 
I  dare  say  it  is  very  good  that  Arthur  should  go  into  Parliament  and 
distinguish  himself,  and  my  duty  is  to  do  everything  that  lies  in  my 
power^to  aid  him  and  Blanche,  and  to  make  his  home  happy.  I  dare  say 
I  shall  live  with  them.  If  I  am  godmother  to  one  of  their  children, 
I  will  leave  her  my  three  thousand  pounds  ! "   and  forthwith  she  began 


66o  PENDENNIS. 

to  think  what  she  could  give  Blanche  out  of  her  small  treasures,  and 
how  best  to  conciliate  her  affection.  She  wrote  her  forthwith  a  kind 
letter  in  which,  of  course,  no  mention  was  made  of  the  plans  in  con- 
templation, but  in  which  Laura  recalled  old  times,  and  spoke  her 
good-will,  and  in  reply  to  this  she  received  an  eager  answer  from 
Blanche :  in  which  not  a  word  about  marriage  was  said,  to  be  sure, 
but  iMr.  Pendennis  was  mentioned  two  or  three  times  in  the  letter, 
and  they  were  to  be  henceforth  dearest  Laura,  and  dearest  Blanche, 
and  loving  sisters,  and  so  forth. 

When  Pen  and  Laura  reached  home,  after  Laura's  confession, 
(Pen's  noble  acknowledgment  of  his  own  inferiority  and  generous 
expression  of  love  for  Warrington  causing  the  girl's  heart  to  throb, 
and  rendering  doubly  keen  those  tears  which  she  sobbed  on  his 
shoulder,)  a  little  slim  letter  was  awaiting  Miss  Bell  in  the  hall, 
which  she  trembled  rather  guiltily  as  she  unsealed,  and  which  Pen 
blushed  as  he  recognised  :  for  he  saw  instantly  that  it  was  from 
Blanche. 

Laura  opened  it  hastily,  and  cast  her  eyes  quickly  over  it,  as  Pen 
kept  his  fixed  on  her,  blushing. 

"  She  dates  from  London,"  Laura  said.  "  She  has  been  with  old 
Bonner,  Lady  Clavering's  maid.  Bonner  is  going  to  marry  Lightfoot 
the  butler.  Where  do  you  think  Blanche  has  been  ? "  she  cried  out 
eagerly. 

"  To  Paris,  to  Scotland,  to  the  Casino  ? " 

"  To  Shepherd's  Inn,  to  see  Fanny ;  but  Fanny  wasn't  there,  and 
Blanche  is  going  to  leave  a  present  for  her.  Isn't  it  kind  of  her  and 
thoughtful  ?"    And  she  handed  the  letter  to  Pen,  who  read — 

" '  I  saw  Madame  M6re,  who  was  scrubbing  the  room,  and  looked 
at  me  with  very  scrubby  looks ;  but  ia  belle  Fanny  was  not  au  logis; 
and  as  I  heard  that  she  was  in  Captain  Strong's  apartments,  Bonner 
and  I  mounted  mc  troisihne  to  see  this  famous  beauty.  Another 
disappointment — only  the  Chevalier  Strong  and  a  friend  of  his  in  the 
room:  Sv")  we  came  away  after  all  without  seeing  the  enchanting 
Fanny. 

'■'■'■  Je  Venvoie  mille  et  milk  baisers.  When  will  that  horrid  can- 
vassing be  over }    Sleeves  are  worn,'  &c.  &c.  &c." 

After  dinner  the  doctor  was  reading  the  Times.  "  A  young  gentle- 
man I  attended  when  he  was  here  some  eight  or  nine  years  ago,  has 
come  into  a  fine  fortune,"  the  doctor  said.  "  I  see  here  announced  the 
death  of  John  Henry  Fokcr,  Esq.,  of  Logwood  Hall,  at  Pau,  in  the 
Pjrenees,  on  the  15th  ult." 


PENDENNIS.  05< 


CHAPTER   LXVII. 

IN   WHICH   THE   MAJOR  IS   BIDDEN  TO   STAND  AND   DELIVER. 

A  NY  gentleman  who  has  frequented  the  '•Wheel  of  Fortune" 
■^*-  public-house,  where  it  may  be  remembered  that  Mr.  James 
Morgan's  Club  was  held,  and  where  Sir  Francis  Clavering  had  an 
interview  with  Major  Pendennis,  is  aware  that  there  are  three  rooms 
for  guests  upon  the  ground-floor,  besides  the  bar  where  the  land- 
lady sits.  One  is  a  parlour  frequented  by  the  public  at  large  ;  to 
another  room  gentlemen  in  livery  resort ;  and  the  third  apartment,  on 
the  door  of  which  "  Private  "  is  painted,  is  that  hired  by  the  Club  of 
"  The  Confidentials,"  of  which  Messrs.  Morgan  and  Lightfoot  were 
members. 

The  noiseless  Morgan  had  listened  to  the  conversation  between 
Strong  and  Major  Pendennis  at  the  latter's  own  lodgings,  and  had 
carried  away  from  it  matter  for  much  private  speculation  ;  and  a 
desire  of  knowledge  had  led  him  to  follow  his  master  when  the  Major 
came  to  the  "  Wheel  of  Fortune,"  and  to  take  his  place  quietly  in  the 
Confidential  room,  whilst  Pendennis  and  Clavering  had  their  discourse' 
in  the  parlour.  There  was  a  particular  corner  in  the  Confidential 
room  from  which  you  could  hear  almost  all  that  passed  in  the  next 
apartment  ;  and  as  the  conversation  between  the  two  gentlemen  there 
was  rather  angry,  and  carried  on  in  a  high  key,  Morgan  had  the 
benefit  of  overhearing  almost  the  whole  of  it  ;  and  what  he  heard 
strengthened  the  conclusions  which  his  mind  had  previously  formed. 

"  He  knew  Altamont  at  once,  did  he,  when  he  saw  him  in  Sydney  ? 
Clavering  ain't  no  more  married  to  my  Lady  than  I  am  !  Altamont's 
the  man  :  Altamont's  a  convict  ;  young  Harthur  comes  into  Parlyment, 
and  the  Gov'nor  promises  not  to  split.  By  Jove,  what  a  sly  old  rogue 
it  is,  that  old  Go'v'nor  !  No  wonder  he's  anxious  to  make  the  match 
between  Blanche  and  Harthur  :  why,  she'll  have  a  hundred  thousand 
if  she's  a  penny,  and  bring  her  man  a  seat  in  Parlyment  into  the 
bargain."  Nobody  saw,  but  a  physiognomist  would  have  liked  to 
behold,  the  expression  of  Mr.  Morgan's  countenance,  when  this 
astounding  intelligence  was  made  clear  to  him.  "  But  for  my  hage, 
and  the  confounded  prejudices  of  society,"  he  said,  surveying  himself 
in  the  glass,  "  dammy,  James  Morgan,  you  might  marry  her  yourself." 


662  PENDENNIS. 

But  if  he  could  not  marry  Miss  Blanche  and  her  fortune,  Morgan 
thought  he  could  mend  his  own  by  the  possession  of  this  information, 
and  that  it  might  be  productive  of  benefit  to  him  from  veiy  many 
sources.  Of  all  the  persons  whom  the  secret  affected,  the  greater 
number  would  not  like  to  have  it  known.  For  instance,  Sir  Francis 
Clavering,  whose  fortune  it  involved,  would  wish  to  keep  it  quiet ; 
Colonel  Altamont,  whose  neck  it  implicated,  would  naturally  be 
desirous  to  hush  it  :  and  that  young  upstart  beast,  Mr.  Harthur,  who 
was  for  gettin'  into  Parlyment  on  the  strenth  of  it,  and  was  as  proud 
as  if  he  was  a  duke  with  half  a  millium  a  year  (such,  we  grieve  to  say, 
was  Morgan's  opinion  of  his  employei-'s  nephew),  would  pay  any  think 
sooner  than  let  the  world  know  that  he  was  married  to  a  convick's 
daughter,  and  had  got  his  seat  in  Parlyment  by  trafficking  with  this 
secret.  As  for  Lady  C,  Morgan  thought,  if  she's  tired  of  Clavering, 
and  wants  to  get  rid  of  him,  she'll  pay  :  if  she's  frightened  about  her 
son,  and  fond  of  the  little  beggar,  she'll  pay  all  the  same :  and  Miss 
Blanche  will  certainly  come  down  handsome  to  the  man  who  will  put 
her  into  her  rights,  which  she  was  unjustly  defrauded  of  them,  and  no 
mistake.  "  Dammy,"  concluded  the  valet,  reflecting  upon  this  won- 
derful hand  which  luck  had  given  him  to  play,  "  with  such  cards  as 
these,  James  Morgan,  you  are  a  made  man.  It  may  be  a  reg'lar 
enewity  to  me.  Every  sne  of  'em  must  susscribe.  And  with  what 
I've  made  already,  I  may  cut  business,  give  my  old  Gov'nor  warning, 
turn  gentleman,  and  have  a  servant  of  my  own,  begad."  Entertaining 
himself  with  calculations  such  as  these,  that  were  not  a  little  likely 
to  perturb  a  man's  spirit,  Mr.  Morgan  showed  a  ven,^  great  degree  of 
self-command  by  appearing  and  being  calm,  and  by  not  allowing  his 
future  prospects  in  any  way  to  interfere  with  his  present  duties. 

One  of  the  persons  whom  the  story  chiefly  concerned,  Colonel 
Altamont,  was  absent  from  London,  when  Morgan  was  thus  made 
acquainted  with  his  history.  The  valet  knew  of  Sir  Francis  Clavering's 
Shepherd's  Inn  haunt,  and  walked  thither  an  hour  or  two  after  the 
Baronet  and  Pendennis  had  had  their  conversation  together.  But 
that  bird  was  flowti ;  Colonel  Altamont  had  received  his  Derby 
winnings,  and  was  gone  to  the  Continent.  The  fact  of  his  absence 
was  exceedingly  vexatious  to  Mr.  Morgan.  "  He'll  drop  all  that 
money  at  the  gambling-shops  on  the  Rhind,"  thought  Morgan,  "  and 
I  might  have  had  a  good  bit  of  it.  It's  confounded  annoying  to 
think  he's  gone  and  couldn't  have  waited  a  few  days  longer."  Hope, 
triumphant  or  deferred,  ambition  or  disappointment,  victor)-  or  patient 
ambush,  Morgan  bore  all  alike,'  with  similar  equable  countenance. 
Until  the  proper  day  came,  the  Majors  boots  were  varnished  and  his 
hair  was  curled,  his  early  cup  of  tea  was  brought  to  his  bedside,  his 
oaths,  rebukes,  and  senile  satire  borne,  with  silent  obsequious  tidelitv. 


PENDJCNA'IS.  663 

Who  would  think,  to  see  him  waiting  upon  his  master,  packing  and 
shouldering  his  trunks,  and  occasionally  assisting  at  table,  at  the 
country-houses  where  he  might  be  staying,  that  Morgan  was  richer 
than  his  employer,  and  knew  his  secrets  and  other  people's?  In  the* 
profession  Mr.  Morgan  was  greatly  respected  and  admired,  and  his 
reputation  for  wealth  and  wisdom  got  him  much  renown  at  most 
supper-tables:  the  younger  gentlemen  voted  him  stoopid,  a  feller  of 
no  ideas,  and  a  fogey,  in  a  word :  but  not  one  of  them  would  not  say 
Amen  to  the  heartfelt  prayer  which  some  of  the  most  serious-minded 
an:iong  the  gentlemen  uttered,  "  When  I  die  may  I  cut  up  as  well  as 
Morgan  Pendennis ! " 

As  became  a  man  of  fashion.  Major  Pendennis  spent  the  autumn 
passing  from  house  to  house  of  such  country  friends  as  were  at  home 
to  receive  him,  and  if  the  Duke  happened  to  be  abroad,  or  the 
Marquis  in  Scotland,  condescending  to  sojourn  with  Sir  John  or  the 
plain  Squire.  To  say  the  truth,  the  old  gentleman's  reputation 
was  somewhat  on  the  wane :  many  of  the  men  of  his  time  had  died 
out,  and  the  occupants  of  their  halls  and  the  present  wearers  of  their 
titles  knew  not  Major  Pendennis ;  and  little  cared  for  his  traditions  of 
the  wild  Prince  and  Poins,  and  of  the  heroes  of  fashion  passed  away. 
It  must  have  struck  the  good  man  with  melancholy  as  he  walked  by 
many  a  London  door,  to  think  how  seldom  it  was  now  opened  for 
him,  and  how  often  he  used  to  knock  at  it — to  what  banquets  and 
welcome  he  used  to  pass  through  it — a  score  of  years  back.  He 
began  to  own  that  he  was  no  longer  of  the  present  age,  and  dimly  to 
apprehend  that  the  young  men  laughed  at  him.  Such  melancholy 
musings  must  come  across  many  a  Pall  Mall  philosopher.  The  men, 
thinks  he,  are  not  such  as  they  used  to  be  in  his  time :  the  old  grand 
manner  and  courtly  grace  of  life  are  gone :  what  is  Castlewood  House 
and  the  present  Castlewood,  compared  to  the  magnificence  of  the  old 
mansion  and  owner  ?  The  late  lord  came  to  London  with  four  post- 
chaises  and  sixteen  horses :  all  the  West  Road  hurried  out  to  look  at 
his  cavalcade :  the  people  in  London  streets  even  stopped  as  his 
procession  passed  them.  The  present  lord  travels  with  five  bagmen 
in  a  railway  carriage,  and  sneaks  away  from  the  station,  smoking  a 
cigar  in  a  brougham.  The  late  lord  in  autumn  filled  Castlewood 
with  company,  who  drank  claret  till  midnight :  the  present  man 
buries  himself  in  a  hut  on  a  Scotch  mountain,  and  passes  November 
in  two  or  three  closets  in  an  entresol  at  Paris,  where  his  amusements 
are  a  dinner  at  a  cafe  and  a  box  at  a  little  theatre.  What  a  contrast 
there  is  between  his  Lady  Lorraine,  the  Regent's  Lady  Lorraine,  and 
her  little  ladyship  of  the  present  era !  He  figures  to  himself  the 
first,  beautiful,  gorgeous,  magnificent  in  diamonds  and  velvets,  daring 


664  PEXDENNIS. 

in  rouge,  the  wits  of  the  world  (the  old  wits,  the  old  polished  gentle- 
men—not the  canaille  of  to-day  with  their  language  of  the  cab-stand, 
and  their  coats  smelling  of  smoke)  bowing  at   her  feet;   and   then 
think  of  to-da)''s   Lady  Lorraine — a  little   woman   in   a  black   silk 
gown,  like  a  governess,  who  talks  astronomy,  and  labouring  classes, 
and  emigration,  and  the  deuce  knows  what,  and  lurks  to  church  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.     Abbots-Lorraine,  that  used  to  be  the 
noblest  house  in  the  county,  is  turned  into  a  monaster)- — a  regular 
La  Trappe.     They  don't  drink  two  glasses  of  wine  after  dinner,  and 
every  other  man  at  table  is  a  country  curate,  with  a  white  neckcloth, 
whose  talk  is   about   Polly   Higson's  progress  at  school,  or  widow 
Watkins'  lumbago.      "  And   the   other  young  men,   those    lounging 
guardsmen  and  great  lazy  dandies — sprawling  over  sofas  and  billiard- 
tables,  and  stealing  oft"  to  smoke  pipes  in  each  other's  bed-rooms, 
caring  for  nothing,  reverencing  nothing,  not  even  an  old  gentleman 
who  has  known  their  fathers   and  their  betters,  not   even   a  pretty 
woman — what  a  diff"erence  there   is   between  these  men  who  poison 
the  very  turnips  and  stubble-fields  with  their  tobacco,  and  the  gentle- 
men of  our  time!"  thinks  the  Major;  "the  breed  is  gone — there's  no 
use  for 'em;  they're  replaced  by  a  parcel  of  damned  cotton-spinners 
and  utilitarians,  and  young  sprigs  of  parsons  with  their  hair  combed 
down  their  backs.     I'm  getting  old:    they're  getting  past  me:  they 
laugh  at  us  old  boys,"  thought  old  Pendennis.     And  he  was  not  far 
wrong;  the  times  and  manners  which  he  admired  were  pretty  nearly 
gone — the  gay  young  men  "  larked"  him  irreverently,  whilst  the  serious 
youth  had  a  grave  pity  and  wonder  at  him,  which  would  have  been  even 
more  painful  to  bear,  had  the  old  gentleman  been  aware  of  its  extent. 
But  he  was  rather  simple :  his  examination  of  nior.il  questions  had 
never  been  verj-  deep;  it  had  never  struck  him  perhaps,  until  very- 
lately,  that  he  was  otherwise  than  a  most  respectable  and  rather  fortu- 
nate man.   Is  there  no  old  age  but  his  without  reverence .'  Did  youthful 
folly  never  jeer  at  other  bald  pates  ?     For  the  past  two  or  three  years 
he  had  begun  to  perceive  that  his  day  was  well  nigh  over,  and  that  the 
men  of  the  new  time  had  begun  to  reign. 

After  a  rather  unsuccessful  autumn  season,  then,  during  which  he 
was  faithfully  followed  by  Mr.  Morgan,  his  nephew  Arthur  being 
engaged,  as  we  have  seen,  at  Clavering,  it  happened  that  Major  Pen- 
dennis came  back  for  awhile  to  London,  at  the  dismal  end  of  October, 
when  the  fogs  and  the  lawyers  come  to  town.  Who  has  not  looked 
with  interest  at  those  loaded  cabs,  piled  boxes,  and  crowded  children, 
rattling  through  the  streets  on  the  dun  October  evenings;  stopping 
at  the  dark  houses,  where  they  discharge  nurse  and  infant,  girls, 
matron  and  father,  whose  holidays  are  over?  Yesterday  it  was 
France  and  sunshine,  or  Broadstairs  and  liberty;  to-dav  comes  work 


PENDENNIS.  665 

and  a  yellow  fog ;  and,  yc  gods !  what  a  heap  of  bills  there  lies  in 
Master's  study.  And  the  clerk  has  brought  the  lawyer's  papers  from 
Chambers ;  and  in  half  an  hour  the  literary  man  knows  that  the 
printer's  boy  will  be  in  the  passage:  and  Mr.  Smith  with  that  little 
account  (that  particular  little  account)  has  called  presentient  of  your 
arrival,  and  has  left  word  that  he  will  call  to-morrow  morning  at  ten. 
Who  amongst  us  has  not  said  good-by  to  his  holiday;  returned  to  dun 
London,  and  his  fate :  surveyed  his  labours  and  liabilities  laid  out 
before  him,  and  been  aware  of  that  inevitable  little  account  to  settle  ? 
Smith  and  his  little  account  in  the  morning,  symbolise  duty,  difficulty, 
struggle,  which  you  will  meet,  let  us  hope,  friend,  with  a  manly  and 
honest  heart. — And  you  think  of  him,  as  the  children  are  slumbering 
once  more  in  their  own  beds,  and  the  watchful  housewife  tenderly 
pretends  to  sleep. 

Old  Pendennis  had  no  special  labours  or  bills  to  encounter  on  the 
morrow,  as  he  had  no  affection  at  home  to  soothe  him.  He  had  always 
money  in  his  desk  sufficient  for  his  wants ;  and  being  by  nature  and 
habit  tolerably  indifferent  to  the  wants  of  other  people,  these  latter 
were  not  likely  to  disturb  him.  But  a  gentleman  may  be  out  of  temper 
though  he  does  not  owe  a  shilling :  and  though  he  may  be  ever  so 
selfish,  he  must  occasionally  feel  dispirited  and  lonely.  He  had  had 
two  or  three  twinges  of  gout  in  the  countr)'-house  where  he  had  been 
staying :  the  birds  were  wild  and  shy,  and  the  walking  over  the 
ploughed  fields  had  fatigued  him  deucedly:  the  young  men  had 
laughed  at  him,  and  he  had  been  peevish  at  table  once  or  twice :  he 
had  not  been  able  to  get  his  whist  of  an  evening :  and,  in  fine,  was 
glad  to  come  away.  In  all  his  dealings  with  Morgan,  his  valet,  he  had 
been  exceedingly  sulky  and  discontented.  He  had  sworn  at  him  and 
abused  him  for  many  days  past.  He  had  scalded  his  mouth  with  bad 
soup  at  Swindon.  He  had  left  his  umbrella  in  the  railroad  carriage : 
at  which  piece  of  forgetfulness,  he  was  in  such  a  rage,  that  he  cursed 
Morgan  more  freely  than  ever.  Both  the  chimneys  smoked  furiously 
in  his  lodgings ;  and  when  he  caused  the  windows  to  be  flung  open, 
he  swore  so  acrimoniously,  that  Morgan  was  inclined  to  fling  him  out 
of  window,  too,  through  that  opened  casement.  The  valet  swore  after 
his  master,  as  Pendennis  went  down  the  street  on  his  way  to  the  Club. 

Bays's  was  not  at  all  pleasant.  The  house  had  been  new  painted, 
and  smelt  of  varnish  and  turpentine,  and  a  large  streak  of  white  paint 
inflicted  itself  on  the  back  of  the  old  boy's  fur-collared  surtout.  The 
dinner  was  not  good :  and  the  three  most  odious  men  in  all  London — 
old  Hawkshaw,  whose  cough  and  accompaniments  are  fit  to  make  any 
man  uncomfortable;  old  Colonel  Gripley,  who  seizes  on  all  the  news- 
papers; and  that  irreclaimable  old  bore  Jawkins,  who  would  come 
and  dine  at  the  next  table  to  Pendennis,  and  describe  to  him  eveiy 


666  PENDENNIS. 

inn-bill  which  he  had  paid  in  his  foreign  tour :  each  and  all  of  these 
disao-rceablc  personages  and  incidents  had  contributed  to  make  Major 
Pendennis  miserable;  and  the  Club  waiter  trod  on  his  toe  as  he 
brought  him  his  coffee.  Never  alone  appear  the  Immortals.  The 
Furies  always  hunt  in  company :  they  pursued  Pendennis  from  home 
to  the  Club,  and  from  the  Club  home. 

Whilst  the  Major  was  absent  from  his  lodgings,  Morgan  had  been 
seated  in  the  landlady's  parlour,  drinking  freely  of  hot  brandy-and- 
water,  and  pouring  out  on  Mrs.  Brixham  some  of  the  abuse  which  he 
had  received  from  his  master  upstairs.  Mrs.  Brixham  was  Morgan's 
slave.  He  was  his  landlady's  landlord.  He  had  bought  the  lease  of 
the  house  which  she  rented ;  he  had  got  her  name  and  her  son's  to 
acceptances,  and  a  bill  of  sale  which  made  him  master  of  the  luckless 
widoVs  furniture.  The  young  Brixham  was  a  clerk  in  an  insurance- 
office,  and  Morgan  could  put  him  into  what  he  called  quod  any  day. 
Mrs.  Brixham  was  a  clergyman's  widow,  and  Mr.  Morgan,  after  per- 
fonning  his  duties  on  the  first  floor,  had  a  pleasure  in  making  the  old 
lady  fetch  him  his  boot-jack  and  his  slippers.  She  was  his  slave. 
The  little  black  profiles  of  her  son  and  daughter;  the  very  picture  of 
Tiddlecot  Church,  where  she  was  married,  and  her  poor  dear  Brixham 
lived  and  died,  was  now  Morgan's  property,  as  it  hung  there  over  the 
mantel-piece  of  his  back-parlour.  Morgan  sate  in  the  widow's  back- 
room, in  the  ex-curate's  old  horse-hair  study-chair,  making  Mrs.  Brix- 
ham bring  supper  for  him,  and  fill  his  glass  again  and  again. 

The  liquor  was  bought  with  the  poor  woman's  own  coin,  and 
hence  Morgan  indulged  in  it  only  the  more  freely ;  and  he  had  eaten 
his  supper  and  was  drinking  a  third  tumbler  when  old  Pendennis 
returned  from  the  Club,  and  went  upstairs  to  his  rooms.  Mr.  Morgan 
swore  very  savagely  at  him  and  his  bell,  when  he  heard  the  latter, 
and  finished  his  tumbler  of  brandy  before  he  went  up  to  answer  the 
summons. 

He  received  the  abuse  consequent  on  this  delay  in  silence,  nor  did 
the  Major  condescend  to  read  in  the  flushed  face  and  glaring  eyes  of 
the  man,  the  anger  under  which  he  was  labouring.  The  old  gentle- 
man's foot-bath  was  at  the  fire;  his  gown  and  slippers  awaiting  him 
there.  Morgan  knelt  down  to  take  his  boots  off  with  due  subordina- 
tion :  and  as  the  Major  abused  him  from  above,  kept  up  a  growl  of 
maledictions  below  at  his  feet.  Thus,  when  Pendennis  was  crying, 
"  Confound  you,  sir,  mind  that  strap—  curse  you,  don't  wrench  my  foot 
off,'  Morgan  sotio  voce  below  was  expressing  a  wish  to  strangle  him, 
drown  him,  and  punch  his  head  off. 

The  boots  removed,  it  became  necessary  lo  divest  Mr.  Pendennis 
of  his  coat :  and  for  this  purpose  the  valet  had  necessarily  to  approach 
very  near  to  his  employer;    so  near  that   Pendennis  could  not  but 


PENDENNIS,  667 

perceive  what  Mr.  Morgan's  late  occupation  had  been ;  to  which  lie 
adverted  in  that  simple  and  forcible  phraseology  which  men  arc  some- 
limes  in  the  habit  of  using  to  their  domestics  :  informing  Morgan  that 
he  was  a  drunken  beast,  and  that  he  smelt  of  brandy. 

At  this  the  man  broke  out,  losing  patience,  and  flinging  up  all 

subqrdination,  "  I'm  drunk,  am  I  ?     I'm  a  beast,  am  I  ?     I'm  d d, 

am  I  ?  you  infernal  old  miscreant.  Shall  I  wring  your  old  head  off, 
and  drownd  ycr  in  that  pail  of  water  ?  Do  you  think  I'm  a-goin' 
to  bear  your  confounded  old  harrogance,  you  old  Wigsby  !  Chatter  your 
old  hivories  at  me,  do  you,  you  grinning  old  baboon  !  Come  on,  if  you 
are  a  man,  and  can  stand  to  a  man.  Ha !  you  coward,  knives,  knives !  " 

"If  you  advance  a  step  I'll  send  it  into  you,"  said  the  Major, 
seizing  up  a  knife  that  was  on  the  table  near  him.  "  Go  downstairs, 
you  drunken  brute,  and  leave  the  house ;  send  for  your  book  and  your 
wages  in  the  morning,  and  never  let  me  see  your  insolent  face  again. 

This  d d  impertinence  of  yours  has  been  growing  for  some  months 

past.  You  have  been  growing  too  rich.  You  are  not  fit  for  service. 
Get  out  of  it,  and  out  of  the  house." 

"  And  where  would  you  wish  me  to  go,  pray,  out  of  the  'ouse  'i " 
asked  the  man,  "  and  won't  it  be  equal  convenient  to-morrow 
momin'  ? — tootyfay  Miatne  shose,  sivvaplay,  munseer?"  " 

"  Silence,  you  beast,  and  go  !"  cried  out  the  Major. 

Morgan  began  to  laugh,  with  rather  a  sinister  laugh.  "  Look  yere, 
Pendennis,"  he  said,  seating  himself;  "since  I've  been  in  this  room 

you've  called  me  beast,  brute,  dog :  and  d d  me,  haven't  you  ? 

How  do  you  suppose  one  man  likes  that  sort  of  talk  from  another? 
How  many  years  have  I  waited  on  you,  and  how  many  damns  and 
cusses  have  you  given  me,  along  with  my  wages  ?  Do  you  think  a 
man's  a  dog,  that  you  can  talk  to  him  in  this  way  ?  If  I  choose  to 
drink  a  little,  why  shouldn't  I .''  I've  seen  many  a  gentleman  drunk 
form'ly,  and  per'aps  have  the  'abit  from  them.  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  leave 
this  house,  old  feller,  and  shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  The  house  is  my 
house,  every  stick  of  furnitur'  in  it  is  mine,  excep'_y<?«r  old  traps,  and 
your  shower-bath,  and  your  wig-box.  I've  bought  the  place,  I  tell  you, 
with  my  own  industry  and  perseverance.  I  can  show  a  hundred  pound, 
where  you  can  show  a  fifty,  or  your  damned  supersellious  nephew 
either.  I've  served  you  honourable,  done  everythink  for  you  these 
dozen  years,  and  I'm  a  dog,  am  I  ?  I'm  a  beast,  am  I  ?  That's  the 
language  for  gentlemen,  not  for  our  rank.  But  I'll  bear  it  no  more. 
I  throw  up  your  service ;  I'm  tired  on  it ;  I've  combed  your  old  wig 
and  buckled  your  old  girths  and  waistbands  long  enough,  I  tell  you. 
Don't  look  savage  at  me,  -I'm  sitting  in  my  own  chair,  in  my  own  room, 
a-telling  the  truth  to  you.  I'll  be  your  beast,  and  your  brute,  and  your 
dog  no  more.  Major  Pendennis  'Alf  Pay." 


668  FEA'DENi\IS. 

The  fur>'  of  the  old  gentleman,  met  by  the  servant's  abrupt  revolt, 
had  been  shocked  and  cooled  by  the  concussion,  as  much  as  if  a 
sudden  shower-bath  or  a  pail  of  cold  water  had  been  flung  upon  him. 
That  effect  produced,  and  his  anger  calmed,  Morgan's  speech  had 
interested  him,  and  he  rather  respected  his  adversar)-,  and  his  courage 
in  facing  him,  as  of  old  days,  in  the  fencing-room,  he  would  have 
admired  the  opponent  who  hit  him. 

"  You  are  no  longer  my  servant,"  the  Major  said  :  "  and  the 
house  may  be  yours  ;  but  the  lodgings  are  mine,  and  you  will  have 
the  goodness  to  leave  them.  To-morrow  morning,  when  we  have 
settled  our  accounts,  I  shall  remove  into  other  quarters.  In  the  mean- 
time, I  desire  to  go  to  bed,  and  have  not  the  slightest  wish  for  your 
farther  company." 

"  IVe'll  have  a  settlement,  don't  you  be  afraid,"  Morgan  said, 
getting  up  from  his  chair.  "  I  ain't  done  with  you  yet  ;  nor  with  your 
family,  nor  with  the  Clavering  family,  Major  Pendennis  ;  and  that  you 
shall  know." 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  leave  the  room,  sir ; — I'm  tired,"  said  the 
Major. 

"  Hah !  you'll  be  more  tired  of  me  afore  you've  done,"  answered 
the  man,  with  a  sneer,  and  walked  out  of  the  room  ;  leaving  the  Major 
to  compose  himself,  as  best  he  might,  after  the  agitation  of  this  extra- 
ordinary scene. 

He  sate  and  mused  by  his  fire-side  over  the  past  events,  and  the 
confounded  impudence  and  ingratitude  of  servants  ;  and  thought  how 
he  should  get  a  new  man  :  how  devilish  unpleasant  it  was  for  a  man 
of  his  age,  and  with  his  habits,  to  part  with  a  fellow  to  whom  he  had 
been  accustomed  :  how  Morgan  had  a  receipt  for  boot-varnish,  which 
was  incomparably  better  and  more  comfortable  to  the  feet  than  any  • 
he  had  ever  tried  :  how  very  well  he  made  mutton-broth,  and  tended 
him  when  he  was  unwell.  "  Gad,  it's  a  hard  thing  to  lose  a  fellow  of 
that  sort :  but  he  must  go,"  thought  the  Major.  "  He  has  grown 
rich,  and  impudent  since  he  has  grown  rich.  He  was  horribly  tipsy 
and  abusive  to-night.  We  must  part,  and  I  must  go  out  of  the 
lodgings.  Dammy,  I  like  the  lodgings  ;  I'm  used  to  "em.  It's  verj' 
unpleasant,  at  my  time  of  life,  to  change  my  quarters."  And  so  on, 
mused  the  old  gentleman.  The  shower-bath  had  done  him  good  : 
the  testiness  was  gone  :  the  loss  of  the  umbrella,  the  smell  of  paint  at 
the  Club,  were  forgotten  under  the  superior  excitement.  "  Confound 
the  insolent  villain  !  "  thought  the  old  gentleman.  "  He  understood  my 
wants  to  a  nicety  ;  hawas  the  best  servant  in  England."  He  thought 
about  his  ser\^ant  as  a  man  thinks  of  a  horse  that  has  carried  him 
long  and  well,  and  that  has  come  down  with  him,  and  is  safe  no  longer. 
How  the  deuce  to  replace  him  ?  Where  can  he  get  such  another  animal ! 


PENDENNIS.  669 

In  these  melancholy  cogitations  the  Major  who  had  donned  his 
own  dressing  gown  and  replaced  his  head  of  hair  (a  little  grey  had  been 
introduced  into  the  coiffure  of  late  by  Mr.  Truefitt,  which  had  given 
the  Major's  head  the  most  artless  and  respectable  appearance)  ;  in 
these  cogitations,  we  say,  the  Major,  who  had  taken  off  his  wig  and  put 
on  his  night-handkerchief,  sate  absorbed  by  the  fire-side,  when  a  feeble 
knock  came  at  bis  door,  which  was  presently  opened  by  the  landlady 
of  the  lodgings. 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  Mrs.  Brixham  !"  cried  out  the  Major,  startled 
that  a  lady  should  behold  him  in  the  simple  appareil  of  his  night- 
toilette.     "  It — it's  very  late,  Mrs.  Brixham." 

"  I  wish  I  might  speak  to  you,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  very  piteously. 

"  About  Morgan,  I  suppose  ?  He  has  cooled  himself  at  the  pump. 
Can't  take  him  back,  Mrs.  Brbvham.  Impossible.  I'd  determined  to 
part  with  him  before,  when  I  heard  of  his  dealings  in  the  discount 
Ijusiness — I  suppose  you've  heard  of  them,  Mrs.  Brixham  1  My  ser- 
vant's a  capitalist,  begad." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Brixham,  "  1  know  it  to  my  cost.  I  borrowed 
from  him  a  little  money  five  years  ago  ;  and  though  I  have  paid  him 
many  times  over,  I  am  entirely  in  his  power.  I  am  ruined  by  him,  sir. 
Everything  I  had  is  his.     He's  a  dreadful  man." 

"  Eh,  Mrs.  Brixham  ?  iant  pis — dev'lish  sorry  for  you,  and  that  I 
must  quit  your  house  after  lodging  here  so  long  :  there's  no  help  for  it. 
I  must  go," 

"  He  says  we  must  all  go,  sir,"  sobbed  out  the  luckless  widow. 
"  He  came  downstairs  from  you  just  now — he  had  been  drinking,  and 
it  always  makes  him  verj'  wicked — and  he  said  that  you  had  insulted 
him,  sir,  and  treated  him  like  a  dog,  and  spoken  to  him  unkindly  ; 
and  he  swore  he  would  be  revenged,  and — and  I  owe  him  a  hundred 
and  twenty  pounds,  sir, — and  he  has  a  bill  of  sale  of  all  my  furniture — 
and  says  he  will  turn  me  out  of  my  house,  and  send  my  poor  George 
to  prison.     He  has  been  the  ruin  of  my  family,  that  man." 

"  Dev'lish  sorry,  Mrs.  Brixliam  ;  pray  take  a  chair.  What  can  I  do  ?" 

"  Could  you  not  intercede  with  him  for  us  ?  George  will  give  half 
his  allowance  :  my  daughter  can  send  something.  If  you  will  but  stay 
on,  sir,  and  pay  a  quarter's  rent  in  advance " 

"  My  good  madam,  I  would  as  soon  give  a  quarter  in  advance 
as  not,  if  I  were  going  to  stay  in  the  lodgings.  But  I  can't  ;  and 
I  can't  afford  to  fling  away  twenty  pounds,  my  good  madam.  I'm  a 
poor  half-pay  officer,  and  want  every  shilling  I  have,  begad.  As  far 
as  a  few  pounds  goes — say  five  pounds — I  don't  say — and  shall  be 
most  happy,  and  that  sort  of  thing  :  and  I'll  give  it  to  you  in  the  morning 
with  pleasure :  but — but  it's  getting  late,  and  I  have  made  a  railroad 
journey." 


670 


PENDENNIS. 


"  God's  will  be  done,  sir,"  said  the  poor  woman,  dr>'ing  her  tears. 
"  I  must  bear  my  fate." 

"And  a  dev'Hsh  hard  one  it  is,  and  most  sincerely  I  pity  you, 
Mrs.  Brixham.  I— I'll  say  ten  pounds,  if  you  will  permit  me.  Good- 
night." 

"  Mr.  Morgan,  sir,  when  he  came  downstairs,  and  when — when  I 
besought  him  to  have  pity  on  me,  and  told  him  he  had  been  the  ruin 
of  my  family,  said  something  which  I  did  not  well  understand— that 
he  would  ruin  every  family  in  the  house— that  he  knew  something 
would  bring  you  down  too— and  that  you  should  pay  him  for  your — 
your  insolence  to  him.  I — I  must  own  to  you,  that  I  went  down  on 
my  knees  to  him,  sir  ;  and  he  said,  with  a  dreadful  oath  against  you, 
that  he  would  have  you  on  your  knees." 

"  Me  ? — by  Gad,  that  is  too  pleasant  !  Where  is  the  confounded 
feUow?" 

"  He  went  away,  sir.  He  said  he  should  see  you  in  the  morning. 
Oh,  pray  try  and  pacify  him,  and  save  me  and  my  poor  boy."  And 
the  widow  went  away  with  this  prayer,  to  pass  her  night  as  she  might, 
and  look  for  the  dreadful  morrow. 

The  last  words  about  himself  excited  Major  Pendennis  so  much, 
that  his  compassion  for  Mrs.  Brixham's  misfortunes  was  quite  forgotten 
in  the  consideration  of  his  own  case. 

"Me  on  my  knees?"  thought  he,  as  he  got  into  bed:  "confound 
his  impudence.  Who  ever  saw  me  on  my  knees  ?  What  the  devil 
does  the  fellow  know  ?  Gad,  I've  not  had  an  affair  these  twenty 
years.  I  defy  him."  And  the  old  campaigner  turned  round  and 
slept  pretty  sound,  being  rather  excited  and  amused  by  the  events  of 
the  day — the  last  day  in  Bury  Street,  he  was  determined  it  should  be. 
"  For  it's  impossible  to  stay  on  with  a  valet  over  me  and  a  bankrupt 
landlady.  What  good  can  I  do  this  poor  devil  of  a  woman .''  I'll 
give  her  twenty  pound — there's  Warrington's  twenty  pound,  which  he 
has  just  paid — but  what's  the  use  ?  She'll  want  more,  and  more,  and 
more,  and  that  cormorant  Morgan  will  swallow  all.  No,  dammy,  I 
can't  afford  to  know  poor  people ;  and  to-morrow  III  say  good-by^ 
to  Mrs.  Brixham  and  Mr.  Morgan." 


PENDENNIS.  671 


CHAPTER    LXVIII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  MAJOR  NEITHER  YIELDS   HIS  MONEY  NOR  HIS  LIFE. 

EARLY  next  morning  Pendennis's  shutters  were  opened  by  Mor- 
gan, who  appeared  as  usual,  with  a  face  perfectly  grave  and 
respectful,  bearing  with  him  the  old  gentleman's  clothes,  cans  of  water, 
and  elaborate  toilette  requisites. 

"  It's  you,  is  it  ? "  said  the  old  fellow  from  his  bed.  "  I  shan't  take 
you  back  again,  you  understand." 

"  I  'ave  not  the  least  wish  to  be  took  back  agin.  Major  Pendennis," 
Mr.  Morgan  said,  with  grave  dignity,  "  nor  to  serve  you  nor  hany  man. 
But  as  I  wish  you  to  be  comf'table  as  long  as  you  stay  in  my  house,  I 
came  up  to  do  what's  ne'ssary."'  And  once  more,  and  for  the  last 
time,  Mr.  James  Morgan  laid  out  the  silver  dressing-case,  and  strapped 
the  shining  razor. 

These  offices  concluded,  he  addressed  himself  to  the  Major  with 
an  indescribable  solemnity,  and  said  :  "  Thinkin'  that  you  would  most 
likely  be  in  want  of  a  respectable  pusson,  until  you  suited  yourself,  I 
spoke  to  a  young  man  last  night,  who  is  'ere." 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  warrior  in  the  tent-bed. 

"  He  'ave  lived  in  the  fust  fam'lies,  and  I  can  wouch  for  his 
respectability.'' 

"You  are  monstrous  polite,"  grinned  the  old  Major.  And  the 
truth  is,  that  after  the  occurrences  of  the  previous  evening,  Morgan 
had  gone  out  to  his  own  Club  at  the  "  Wheel  of  Fortune,"  and  there 
finding  Frosch,  a  courier  and  valet  just  returned  from  a  foreign  tour 
with  young  Lord  Cubley,  and  for  the  present  disposable,  had  repre- 
sented to  Mr.  Frosch,  that  he,  Morgan,  had  had  "  a  devil  of  a  blow-hup 
with  his  own  Gov'nor,  and  was  goin'  to  retire  from  the  business  halto- 
gether,  and  that  if  Frosch  wanted  a  tempo'ry  job,  he  might  prob'bly 
have  it  by  applying  in  Bury  Street." 

"  You  are  very  polite,"  said  the  Major,  "  and  your  recommendation, 
I  am  sure,  will  have  every  weight." 

Morgan  blushed ;  he  felt  his  master  was  "  a-chaffin'  of  him." 
"  The  man  have  awaited  on  you  before,  sir,"  he  said  with  great  dignity. 
"  Lord  De  la  Pole,  sir,  gave  him  to  his  nephew  young  Lord  Cubley, 
and  he  have  been  with  him  on  his  foring  tour,  and  not  wishing  to  go 


6?: 


PENBENNIS. 


to  Fitzurse  Castle,  which  Frosch's  chest  is  delicate,  and  he  cannot  beat 
the  cold  in  Scotland,  he  is  free  to  serve  you  or  not,  as  you  choose." 

"I  repeat,  sir,  that  you  are  exceedingly  polite,"  said  the  Major. 
"  Come  in,  Frosch— you  will  do  ver>-  well— Mr.  Alorgan,  will  you  have 
the  great  kindness  to " 

"  I  shall  show  him  what  is  ne'ssar\^,  sir,  and  what  is  custom'n-  for 
you  to  wish  to  'ave  done.  Will  you  please  to  take  breakfast  'ere  or  at 
the  Club,  Major  Pendennis  ?"' 

"  With  your  kind  permission,  I  will  breakfast  here,  and  after.vards 
we  will  make  our  little  arrangements." 

"  If  you  please,  sir." 

"  Will  you  now  oblige  me  by  leaving  the  room  ?  ' 

Morgan  withdrew;  the  excessive  politeness  of  his  ex-cmployer 
made  him  almost  as  angr)'  as  the  Majors  bitterest  words.  And  whilst 
the  old  gentleman  is  making  his  mysterious  toilet,  we  will  also  modestly 
retire. 

After  breakfast,  Major  Pendennis  and  his  new  aide-de-camp  occu- 
pied themselves  in  preparing  for  their  departure.  The  establishment 
of  the  old  bachelor  was  not  very  complicated.  He  encumbered  him- 
self with  no  useless  wardrobe.  A  bible  (his  mother's),  a  road-book. 
Pen's  novel  (calf  elegant),  and  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  Despatches, 
with  a  few  prints,  maps,  and  portraits  of  that  illustrious  general,  and 
of  various  sovereigns  and  consorts  of  this  countr)',  and  of  the  General 
under  whom  Major  Pendennis  had  served  in  India,  formed  his  literan.' 
and  artistical  collection :  he  was  always  ready  to  march  at  a  few  hours' 
notice,  and  the  cases  in  which  he  had  brought  his  property  into  his 
lodgings  some  fifteen  years  before,  were  still  in  the  lofts  amply  suffi- 
cient to  receive  all  his  goods.  These,  the  young  woman  who  did  the 
work  of  the  house,  and  who  was  known  by  the  name  of  Betty  to  her 
mistress,  and  of  Slavey  to  Mr.  Morgan,  brought  down  from  their 
resting-place,  and  obediently  dusted  and  cleaned  under  the  eyes  of  the 
terrible  Morgan.  His  demeanour  w^as  guarded  and  solemn;  he  had 
spoken  no  word  as  yet  to  Mrs.  Brixham  respecting  his  thrcr.ts  of  the 
past  night,  but  he  looked  as  if  he  would  execute  them,  a  >i  the  poor 
widow  tremblingly  awaited  her  fate. 

Old  Pendennis,  armed  with  his  cane,  superintended  the  package  of 
his  goods  and  chattels,  under  the  hands  of  Mr.  Frosch,  and  the  Slavey 
burned  such  of  his  papers  as  he  did  not  care  to  keep:  flung  open 
doors  and  closets  until  they  were  all  empty ;  and  now  all  boxes  and 
chests  were  closed,  except  his  desk,  which  was  ready  to  receive  the 
final  accounts  of  Mr.  Morgan. 

That  individual  now  made  his  appearance,  and  brought  his  books. 
"As  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  in  privick,  peraps  you  will  'ave  the  kind- 
ness to  request  Frosch  to  step  downstairs,"  he  said,  on  entering. 


PENDENNIS.  673 

"  Bring  a  couple  of  cabs,  Frosch,  if  you  please — and  wait  down- 
stairs until  I  ring  for  you,"  said  the  Major.  Morgan  saw  Frosch 
downstairs,  watched  him  go  along  the  street  upon  his  errand,  and 
produced  his  books  and  accounts,  which  were  simple  and  very  easily 
settled. 

"  And  now,  sir,"  said  he,  having  pocketed  the  cheque  which  his 
ex-employer  gave  him,  and  signed  his  name  to  his  book  with  a  flourish, 
"  and  now  that  accounts  is  closed  between  us,  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  por- 
pose  to  speak  to  you  as  one  man  to  another"  (Morgan  liked  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice :  and,  as  an  individual,  indulged  in  public 
speaking  whenever  he  could  get  an  opportunity,  at  the  Club,  or  the 
housekeeper's  room),  "and  I  must  tell  you,  that  I'm  in  possussion  of 
certing  infamatioti." 

"And  may  I  inquire  of  what  nature,  pray  .''"  asked  the  Major. 
"  It's  valuble  information,  Major   Pendennis,  as   you   know  very 
well.     I    know  of  a   marriage   as   is   no   marriage — of  a  honourable 
Baronet   as  is  no  more  married  than  I  am;  and  which  his  wife  is 
married  to  somebody  else,  as  you  know,  too,  sir." 

Pendennis  at  once  understood  all.  "  Ha !  this  accounts  for  your 
behaviour.  You  have  been  listening  at  the  door,  sir,  I  suppose,"  said 
the  Major,  looking  very  haughty ;  "  I  forgot  to  look  at  the  keyhole 
when  I  went  to  that  public-house,  or  I  might  have  suspected  what 
sort  of  a  person  was  behind  it." 

"  I  may  have  my  schemes  as  you  may  have  yours,  I  suppose," 
answered  Morgan.  "  I  may  get  my  information,  and  I  may  act  on 
that  information,  and  I  may  find  that  information  valuble  as  anybody 
else  may.  A  poor  servant  may  have  a  bit  of  luck  as  well  as  a  gentle- 
man, mayn't  he  ?  Don't  you  be  putting  on  your  'aughty  looks,  sir, 
and  comin'  the  aristocrat  over  me.  That's  all  gammon  with  me.  I'm 
an  Englishman,  I  am,  and  as  good  as  you." 

"  To  what  the  devil  does  this  tend,  sir  ?  and  how  does  the  secret 
which  you  have  surprised  concern  me,  I  should  like  to  know  ? "  asked 
Major  Pendennis,  with  great  majesty. 

"How  does  it  concern  me,  indeed .''  how  grand  we  are!  How 
does  it  concern  my  nephew,  I  wonder.''  How  does  it  concern  my 
nephew's  seat  in  Parlyment:  and  to  subornation  of  bigamy?  How 
does  it  concern  that  ?  What,  are  you  to  be  the  only  man  to  have  a 
secret,  and  to  trade  on  it  ?  Why  shouldn't  I  go  halves.  Major 
Pendennis  ?  I've  found  it  out  too.  Look  here !  I  ain't  goin'  to  be 
unreasonable  with  you.  Make  it  worth  my  while,  and  I'll  keep  the 
thing  close.  Let  Mr.  Arthur  take  his  seat,  and  his  rich  wife,  if  you 
like ;  I  don't  want  to  marry  her.     But  I  will  have  my  share,  as  sure  as 

my  name's  James  Morgan.     And  if  I  don't " 

"  And  if  you  don't,  sir — what  ?  "  Pendennis  asked. 

43 


674  PENDENNIS. 

"  If  I  don't,  I  split,  and  tell  all.  I  smash  Clavering,  and  have  him 
and  his  wife  up  for  bigamy — so  help  me,  I  will!  I  smash  young 
Hopeful's  marriage,  and  I  show  up  you  and  him  as  makin'  use  of  this 
secret,  in  order  to  squeeze  a  seat  in  Parlyment  out  of  Sir  Francis,  and 
a  fortune  out  of  his  wife." 

"  Mr.  Pendennis  knows  no  more  of  this  business  than  the  babe 
unborn,  sir,"  cried  the  Major  aghast,  "  No  more  than  Lady  Clavering, 
than  Miss  Amory  does." 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines,  Major,"  replied  the  valet ;  "  that  cock 
won't  fight  with  me." 

"  Do  you  doubt  my  word,  you  villain  ? " 

"  No  bad  language.  I  don't  care  one  twopence'a'p'ny  whether 
your  word's  true  or  not.  I  tell  you,  I  intend  this  to  be  a  nice  little 
annuity  to  me,  Major :  for  I  have  every  one  of  you ;  and  I  ain't  such 
a  fool  as  to  let  you  go.  I  should  say  that  you  might  make  it  five 
hundred  a  year  to  me  among  you,  easy.  Pay  me  down  the  first 
quarter  now,  and  I'm  as  mum  as  a  mouse.  Just  give  me  a  note  for 
one  twenty-five.     There's  your  cheque-book  on  your  desk." 

"  And  there's  this  too,  you  villain,"  cried  the  old  gentleman.  In 
the  desk  to  which  the  valet  pointed  was  a  little  double-barrelled  pistol, 
which  had  belonged  to  Pendennis's  old  patron,  the  Indian  commander- 
in-chief,  and  which  had  accompanied  him  in  many  a  campaign.  "  One 
more  word,  you  scoundrel,  and  I'll  shoot  you,  like  a  mad  dog.  Stop 
— by  Jove,  I'll  do  it  now.  You'll  assault  me,  will  you  ?  You'll  strike 
at  an  old  man,  will  you,  you  lying  coward  ?  Kneel  down  and  say  your 
prayers,  sir,  for  by  the  Lord  you  shall  die." 

The  Major's  face  glared  with  rage  at  his  adversary-,  who  looked 
terrified  before  him  for  a  moment,  and  at  the  next,  with  a  shriek  of 
"  Murder ! "  sprang  towards  the  open  window,  under  which  a  police- 
man happened  to  be  on  his  beat.  "  Murder !  Pohce ! "  bellowed 
Mr.  Morgan. 

To  his  surprise.  Major  Pendennis  wheeled  away  the  table  and 
walked  to  the  other  window,  which  was  also  open.  He  beckoned  the 
policeman.  "  Come  up  here,  policeman,"  he  said,  and  then  went  and 
placed  himself  against  the  door. 

"  You  miserable  sneak,"  he  said  to  Morgan ;  "  the  pistol  hasn't 
been  loaded  these  fifteen  years,  as  you  would  have  known  very  well, 
if  you  had  not  been  such  a  coward.  That  policeman  is  coming,  and 
I  will  have  him  up,  and  have  your  trunks  searched ;  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  you  are  a  thief,  sir.  I  know  you  are.  I'll  swear  to  the 
things." 

"  You  gave  'em  to  me— you  gave  'em  to  me !  '  cried  Morgan. 

The  Major  laughed.  "We'll  see,"  he  said;  and  the  guilty  valet 
remembered  some  fine  lawn-fronted  shirts— a  certain  gold-headed  cane 


PENDENNIS.  67s 

— an  opera-glass,  which  he  had  forgotten  to  bring  down,  and  of  which 
he  had  assumed  the  use  along  with  certain  articles  of  his  master's 
clothes,  which  the  old  dandy  neither  wore  nor  asked  for. 

Policeman  X  entered;  followed  by  the  scared  Mrs.  Brixham  and 
her  maid-of-all-work,  who  had  been  at  the  door  and  found  some 
difficulty  in  closing  it  against  the  street  amateurs,  who  wished  to  see 
the  row.     The  Major  began  instantly  to  speak. 

"  I  have  had  occasion  to  discharge  this  drunken  scoundrel,"  he 
said.  "  Both  last  night  and  this  morning  he  insulted  and  assaulted 
me.  I  am  an  old  man  and  took  up  a  pistol.  You  see  it  is  not  loaded, 
and  this  coward  cried  out  before  he  was  hurt.  I  am  glad  you  are 
come.  I  was  charging  him  with  taking  my  property,  and  desired  to 
examine  his  trunks  and  his  room." 

"  The  velvet  cloak  you  ain't  worn  these  three  years,  nor  the  weskits, 
and  I  thought  I  might  take  the  shirts,  and  I — I  take  my  hoath  I 
intended  to  put  back  the  hopera  glass,"  roared  Morgan,  writhing  with 
rage  and  terror. 

"  The  man  acknowledges  that  he  is  a  thief,"  the  Major  said,  calmly. 
"  He  has  been  in  my  service  for  years,  and  I  have  treated  him  with 
every  kindness  and  confidence.  We  will  go  upstairs  and  examine  his 
trunks." 

In  those  trunks  Mr.  Morgan  had  things  which  he  would  fain  keep 
from  public  eyes.  Mr.  Morgan,  the  bill-discounter,  gave  goods  as  well 
as  money  to  his  customers.  He  provided  young  spendthrifts  with 
snuff-boxes  and  pins  and  jewels  and  pictures  and  cigars,  and  of  a  very 
doubtful  quality  those  cigars  and  jewels  and  pictures  were.  Their 
display  at  a  police-office,  the  discovery  of  his  occult  profession,  and 
the  exposure  of  the  Major's  property,  which  he  had  appropriated, 
indeed,  rather  than  stolen, — would  not  have  added  to  the  reputation 
of  Mr.  Morgan.  He  looked  a  piteous  image  of  terror  and  discom- 
fiture. 

"  He'll  smash  me,  will  he?"  thought  the  Major.  "I'll  crush  him 
now,  and  finish  with  him." 

But  he  paused.  He  looked  at  poor  Mrs.  Brixham's  scared  face ;  and 
he  thought  for  a  moment  to  himself  that  the  man  brought  to  bay 
and  in  prison  might  make  disclosures  which  had  best  be  kept  secret, 
and  that  it  was  best  not  to  deal  too  fiercely  with  a  desperate  man. 

"  Stop,"  he  said,  "  policeman.  I'll  speak  with  this  man  by  him- 
self." 

"  Do  you  give  Mr.  Morgan  in  charge  ? "  said  the  policemafk, 

"  I  have  brought  no  charge  as  yet,"  the  Major  said,  with  a  signi- 
ficant look  at  his  man. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  whispered  Morgan,  very  low. 

"  Go  outside  the  door,  and  wait  there,  policeman,  if  you  please. — 


676  PENDENXIS. 

Now,  Morgan,  you  have  played  one  game  with  me,  and  you  have  not 
had  the  best  of  it,  my  good  man.  No,  begad,  you've  not  had  the 
best  of  it,  though  you  had  the  best  hand ;  and  you've  got  to  pay,  too, 
now,  you  scoundrel." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

"  I've  only  found  out,  within  the  last  week,  the  game  which  you 
have  been  driving,  you  villain.  Young  De  Boots,  of  the  Blues, 
recognised  you  as  the  man  who  came  to  barracks,  and  did  business 
one-third  in  money,  one-third  in  eau-de-Cologne,  and  one-third  in 
French  prints,  you  confounded  demure  old  sinner!  I  didn't  miss 
anything,  or  care  a  straw  what  you'd  taken,  you  booby ;  but  I  took 
the  shot,  and  it  hit— hit  the  bull's-eye,  begad.  Dammy,  sir,  I'm  an 
old  campaigner." 

'•  What  do  you  want  with  me,  sir  ? " 

"  rU  tell  you.  Your  bills,  I  suppose,  you  keep  about  you  in  that 
dem'd  great  leather  pocket-book,  don't  you  ?  You'll  burn  Mrs.  Bri.x- 
ham's  bill?" 

"  Sir,  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  part  with  my  property,"  growled  the  man. 

"  You  lent  her  sixty  pounds  five  years  ago.  She  and  that  poor 
devil  of  an  insurance  clerk,  her  son,  have  paid  you  fifty  pounds  a  year 
ever  since ;  and  you  have  got  a  bill  of  sale  of  her  furniture,  and  her 
note  of  hand  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  She  told  me  so  last 
night.     By  Jove,  sir,  you've  bled  that  poor  woman  enough." 

"  I  won't  give  it  up,"  said  Morgan.     "  If  I  do  I'm " 

,  "  Policeman !  "  cried  the  Major. 

"  You  shall  have  the  bill,"  said  Morgan.  "  You"re  not  going  to 
take  money  of  me,  and  you  a  gentleman  ?  " 

"  I  shall  want  you  directly,"  said  the  Major  to  X,  who  here  entered, 
and  who  again  withdrew. 

"  No,  my  good  sir,"  the  old  gentleman  continued ;  "  I  have  not 
any  desire  to  have  farther  pecuniary  transactions  with  you;  but  we 
wiU  draw  out  a  little  paper,  which  you  will  have  the  kindness  to 
sign.  No,  stop  ! — you  shaU  write  it :  you  have  improved  immensely 
in  WTiting  of  late,  and  have  now  a  ver>'  good  hand.  You  shall  sit 
down  and  write,  if  you  please — there,  at  that  table— so — let  me  see — 
we  may  as  well  have  the  date.  Write  '  Bury  Street,  St.  James's, 
October  21,  18—.'" 

And  Morgan  wrote  as  he  was  instructed,  and  as  the  pitiless  old 
Major  continued : — 

" '  I,  James  Morgan,  having  come  in  extreme  poverty  into  the 
ser\'ice  of  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esquire,  of  Bury  Street,  St.  James's,  a 
Major  in  his  Majesty's  service,  acknowledge  that  I  received  liberal 
wages  and  board  wages  from  my  employer,  during  fifteen  years.' — 
You  can't  object  to  that,  I  am  sure,"  said  the  Major. 


PENDENxWIS.  677 

•'  During  fifteen  years,"  wrote  Morgan. 

'' '  In  which  time,  by  my  own  care  and  prudence,' "  the  dictator 
resumed,  "  '  I  have  managed  to  amass  sufficient  money  to  purchase  the 
house  in  which  my  master  resides,  and  besides  to  effect  other  savings. 
Amongst  other  persons  from  whom  I  have  had  money,  I  may  mention 
my  present  tenant,  Mrs.  Brixham,  who,  in  consideration  of  sixty  pounds 
advanced  by  me  five  years  since,  has  paid  back  to  me  the  sum  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  sterling,  besides  giving  me  a  note  of  hand 
for  one  hundred  and  twenty  pounds,  which  I  restore  to  her  at  the 
desire  of  my  late  master,  Major  Arthur  Pendennis,  and  therewith  free 
her  furniture,  of  which  I  had  a  bill  of  sale.' — Have  you  written?" 

"  I  think  if  this  pistol  was  loaded,  I'd  blow  your  brains  out,"  said 
Morgan. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't.  You  have  too  great  a  respect  for  your  valuable 
life,  my  good  man,"  the  Major  answered.  "  Let  us  go  on  and  begin  a 
new  sentence." 

"  'And  having,  in  return  for  my  master's  kindness,  stolen  his  pro- 
perty from  him,  which  I  acknowledge  to  be  now  upstairs  in  my  trunks  : 
and  having  uttered  falsehoods  regarding  his  and  other  honourable 
families,  I  do  hereby,  in  consideration  of  his  clemency  to  me,  express 
my  regret  for  uttering  these  falsehoods,  and  for  stealing  his  property ; 
and  declare  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  belief,  and  that  I  hope ' — yes,  begad, 
that  I  hope — 'to  amend  for  the  future.     Signed,  James  Morgan.'" 

"  I'm  d d  if  I  sign  it,"  said  Morgan. 

"  My  good  man,  it  will  happen  to  you,  whether  you  sign  or  no, 
begad,"  said  the  old  fellow,  chuckling  at  his  own  wit.  "  There,  I  shall 
not  use  this,  you  understand,  unless — unless  I  am  compelled  to  do  so. 
Mrs.  Brixham,  and  our  friend  the  policeman,  will  witness  it,  I  dare 
say,  without  reading  it :  and  I  will  give  the  old  lady  back  her  note  of 
hand,  and  say,  which  you  will  confirm,  that  she  and  you  are  quits.  I 
see  there  is  Frosch  come  back  with  the  cab  for  my  trunks;  I  shall  go 
to  an  hotel. — You  may  come  in  now,  policeman ;  Mr.  Morgan  and  I  have 
arranged  our  little  dispute.  If  Mrs.  Brixham  will  sign  this  paper,  and 
you,  policeman,  will  do  so,  I  shall  be  very  much  obliged  to  you  both. 
Mrs.  Brixham,  you  and  your  worthy  landlord,  Mr.  Morgan,  are  quits. 
I  wish  you  joy  of  him.  Let  Frosch  come  and  pack  the  rest  of  the 
things." 

Frosch,  aided  by  the  Slavey,  under  the  calm  superintendence  of 
Mr.  Morgan,  carried  Major  Pendennis's  boxes  to  the  cab  in  waiting; 
and  Mrs.  Brixham,  when  her  persecutor  was  not  by,  came  and  asked 
a  Heaven's  blessing  upon  the  Major,  her  preserver,  and  the  best  and 
quietest  and  kindest  of  lodgers.  And  having  given  her  a  finger  to 
shake,  which  the  humble  lady  received  with  a  curtsey,  and  over  which 
she  was  ready  to  make  a  speech  full  of  tears,  the  Major  cut  short  that 


67S  PENDENNIS. 

valedictory  oration,  and  walked  out  of  the  house  to  the  hotel  in 
Jermyn  Street,  which  was  not  many  steps  from  Morgan's  door. 

That  individual,  looking  forth  from  the  parlour  window,  discharged 
anything  but  blessings  at  his  parting  guest;  but  the  stout  old  boy 
could  aftbrd  not  to  be  frightened  at  Mr.  Morgan,  and  flung  him  a  look 
of  great  contempt  and  humour  as  he  strutted  away  with  his  cane. 

Major  Pendennis  had  not  quitted  his  house  of  Bury  Street  many 
hours,  and  Mr.  Morgan  was  enjoying  his  oitutn  in  a  dignified  manner, 
surveying  the  evening  fog,  and  smoking  a  cigar  on  the  door-steps, 
when  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq.,  the  hero  of  this  history,  made  his 
appearance  at  the  well-known  door, 

"  My  uncle  out,  I  suppose^  Morgan?"  he  said  to  the  functionary'; 
kno\\-ing  full  well  that  to  smoke  was  treason,  in  the  presence  of  the 
Major. 

"  Major  Pendennis  is  hout,  sir,"  said  Morgan,  with  gravity,  bowing, 
but  not  touching  the  elegant  cap  which  he  wore.  "  Major  Pendennis 
have  left  this  'ouse  to-day,  sir,  and  I  have  no  longer  the  honour  of 
being  in  his  service,  sir." 

"  Indeed,  and  where  is  he?" 

"  I  believe  he  'ave  taken  tempor'y  lodgings  at  Cox's  'otel,  in  Jum- 
min  Street,"  said  Mr.  Morgan ;  and  added,  after  a  pause,  "  Are  you  in 
town  for  some  time,  pray,  sir  ?  Are  you  in  Chambers  ?  I  should  like 
to  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you  there :  and  would  be  thankful  if 
you  would  favour  me  with  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  Do  you  want  my  uncle  to  take  you  back?"  asked  Arthur,  insolent 
and  good-natured. 

"  I  want  no  such  thing ;  I'd  see  him "  the  man  glared  at  him  for 

a  minute,  but  he  stopped.  "  No,  sir,  thank  you,"  he  said  in  a  softer 
voice;  "it's  only  with  you  that  I  wish  to  speak,  on  some  business 
which  concerns  you ;  and  perhaps  you  would  favour  me  by  walking 
into  my  house." 

"  If  it  is  but  for  a  minute  or  two,  I  will  listen  to  you,  Morgan,'"  said 
Arthur;  and  thought  to  himself,  "  I  suppose  the  fellow  wants  me  to 
patronise  him ; "  and  he  entered  the  house.  A  card  was  already  in  the 
front  windows,  proclaiming  that  apartments  were  to  be  let,  and  having 
introduced  Mr.  Pendennis  into  the  dining-room,  and  offered  him  a 
chair,  Mr.  Morgan  took  one  himself,  and  proceeded  to  convey  some 
information  to  him,  of  which  the  reader  has  already  had  cognizance. 


PENDENNIS.  679 


CHAPTER    LXIX. 

IN  WHICH  PENDENNIS  COUNTS  HIS  EGGS. 

OUR  friend  had  arrived  in  London  on  that  day  only,  though  but 
for  a  brief  visit,  and  having  left  some  fellow-travellers  at  an 
hotel  to  which  he  had  convoyed  them  from  the  West,  he  hastened  to 
the  Chambers  in  Lamb  Court,  which  were  basking  in  as  much  sun  as 
chose  to  visit  that  dreary  but  not  altogether  comfortless  building. 
Freedom  stands  in  lieu  of  sunshine  in  Chambers;  and  Templars 
grumble,  but  take  their  ease  in  their  Inn.  Pen's  domestic  announced 
to  him  that  Warrington  was  in  Chambers  too,  and,  of  course,  Arthur 
ran  up  to  his  friend's  room  straightway,  and  found  it,  as  of  old,  per- 
fumed with  the  pipe,  and  George  once  more  at  work  at  his  newspapers 
and  reviews.  The  pair  greeted  each  other  with  the  rough  cordiality 
which  young  Englishmen  use  one  to  another:  and  which  carries  a 
great  deal  of  warmth  and  kindness  under  its  rude  exterior.  Warring- 
ton smiled  and  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  said,  "  Well,  young 
one ! "  Pen  advanced  and  held  out  his  hand,  and  said,  "  How  are 
you,  old  boy?"  And  so  this  greeting  passed  between  two  friends 
who  had  not  seen  each  other  for  months.  Alphonse  and  Freddric 
would  have  rushed  into  each  other's  arms  and  shrieked  "  Ce  bon  cocur! 
ce  cher  Alphotise ! '"  over  each  other's  shoulders.  Max  and  Wilhelm 
would  have  bestowed  half  a  dozen  kisses,  scented  with  Havannah, 
upon  each  other's  mustachios.  "  Well,  young  one ! "  "  How  are  you, 
old  boy  ? "  is  what  two  Britons  say :  after  saving  each  other's  lives, 
possibly,  the  day  before.  To-morrow  they  will  leave  off  shaking 
hands,  and  only  wag  their  heads  at  one  another  as  they  come  to 
breakfast.  Each  has  for  the  other  the  very  warmest  confidence  and 
regard ;  each  would  share  his  purse  with  the  other :  and  hearing  him 
attacked,  would  break  out  in  the  loudest  and  most  enthusiastic  praise 
of  his  friend :  but  they  part  with  a  mere  Good-by,  they  meet  with  a 
mere  How-d'you-do?  and  they  don't  write  to  each  other  in  the  interval. 
Curious  modesty,  strange  stoical  decorum  of  English  friendship ! 
"  Yes,  we  are  not  demonstrative  like  those  confounded  foreigners," 
says  Hardman;  who  not  only  shows  no  friendship,  but  never  felt  any 
all  his  life  long. 

"Been   in   Switzerland?"    says    Pen.      "Yes,"   says   Warrington. 


6So  PENDENNIS. 

"  Couldn't  find  a  bit  of  tobacco  fit  to  smoke  till  we  came  to  Strasburg, 
where  I  got  some  caporal."  The  man's  mind  is  full,  very-  likely,  of  the 
great  sights  which  he  has  seen,  of  the  great  emotions  with  which  the 
vast  works  of  nature  have  inspired  it.  But  his  enthusiasm  is  too  coy 
to  show  itself,  even  to  his  closest  friend,  and  he  veils  it  with  a  cloud  of 
tobacco.  He  will  speak  more  fully  of  confidential  evenings,  however, 
and  write  ardently  and  frankly  about  that  which  he  is  shy  of  saying. 
The  thoughts  and  experience  of  his  travel  will  come  forth  in  his  writ- 
ings; as  the  learning,  which  he  never  displays  in  talk,  enriches  his 
style  with  pregnant  allusion  and  brilliant  illustration,  colours  his  gene- 
rous eloquence,  and  points  his  wit. 

•  The  elder  gives  a  rapid  account  of  the  places  which  he  has  visited 
in  his  tour.  He  has  seen  Switzerland,  North  Italy,  and  the  Tyrol — he 
has  come  home  by  Vienna,  and  Dresden,  and  the  Rhine.  He  speaks 
about  these  places  in  a  shy  sulky  voice,  as  if  he  had  rather  not  mention 
them  at  all,  and  as  if  the  sight  of  them  had  rendered  him  very  unhappy. 
The  outline  of  the  elder  man's  tour  thus  gloomily  sketched  out,  the 
young  one  begins  to  speak.  He  has  been  in  the  country — very  much 
bored — canvassing — uncommonly  slow — he  is  here  for  a  day  or  two, 
and  going  on  to — to  the  neighbourhood  of  Tunbridge  Wells,  to  some 
friends — that  will  be  uncommonly  slow,  too.  How  hard  it  is  to  make 
an  Englishman  acknowledge  that  he  is  happy ! 

"And  the  seat  in  Parliament,  Pen  ?  Have  you  made  it  all  right?" 
asks  Warrington. 

"  All  right, — as  soon  as  Parliament  meets  and  a  new  writ  can  be 
issued,  Clavering  retires,  and  I  step  into  his  shoes,"  says  Pen. 

"  And  under  which  king  does  Bezonian  speak  or  die .'' "  asked  War- 
rington. "  Do  we  come  out  as  Liberal  Conservative,  or  as  Government 
man,  or  on  our  own  hook  ? " 

"  Hem !  There  are  no  politics  now ;  ever>'  man's  politics,  at  least, 
are  pretty  much  the  same.  I  have  not  got  acres  enough  to  make  me 
a  Protectionist ;  nor  could  I  be  one,  I  think,  if  I  had  all  the  land  in  the 
county.  I  shall  go  pretty  much  with  Government,  and  in  advance  of 
them  upon  some  social  questions  which  I  have  been  getting  up  during 
the  vacation; — don't  grin,  you  old  C>Tiic,  I  have  been  getting  up  the 
Blue  Books,  and  intend  to  come  out  rather  strong  on  the  Sanitar)-  and 
Colonisation  questions." 

"We  reserve  to  ourselves  the  hberty  of  voting  against  Govern- 
ment, though  we  are  generally  friendly.  We  are,  however,  friends  of 
the  people  avaiit  tout.  We  give  lectures  at  the  Clavering  Institute, 
and  shake  hands  with  the  intelligent  mechanics.  We  think  the 
franchise  ought  to  be  very  considerably  enlarged ;  at  the  same  time 
we  are  free  to  accept  office  some  day,  when  the  House  has  listened  to  a 
few  crack  speeches  from  us,  and  the  Administration  perceives  our  merit." 


PENDENNIS.  681 

"  I  am  not  Moses,"  said  Pen,  with,  as  usual,  somewhat  of  melan- 
choly in  his  voice.  "  I  have  no  laws  from  Heaven  to  bring  down  to 
the  people  from  the  mountain.  I  don't  belong  to  the  mountain  at  all, 
or  set  up  to  be  a  leader  and  reformer  of  mankind.  My  faith  is  not 
strong  enough  for  that ;  nor  my  vanity,  nor  my  hypocrisy,  great  enough. 
I  will  tell  no  lies,  George,  that  I  promise  you ;  and  do  no  more  than 
coincide  in  those  which  are  necessary  and  pass  current,  and  can't  be 
got  in  without  recalling  the  whole  circulation.  Give  a  man  at  least 
the  advantage  of  his  sceptical  turn.  If  I  find  a  good  thing  to  say  in 
the  House,  I  will  say  it;  a  good  measure,  I  will  support  it;  a  fair 
place,  I  will  take  it,  and  be  glad  of  my  luck.  But  I  would  no  more 
flatter  a  great  man  than  a  mob ;  and  now  you  know  as  much  about  my 
politics  as  I  do.  What  call  have  I  to  be  a  Whig  ?  Whiggism  is  not 
a  divine  institution.  Why  not  vote  for  the  Liberal  Conservatives.'' 
They  have  done  for  the  nation  what  the  Whigs  would  never  have  done 
without  them.  Who  converted  both  .'' — the  Radicals  and  the  country 
outside.  I  think  the  Morjiing  Post  is  often  right,  and  Punch  is  often 
wrong.  I  don't  profess  a  call,  but  take  advantage  of  a  chance.  Parlous 
(Tanire  chose" 

"  The  next  thing  at  your  heart,  after  ambition,  is  love,  I  suppose  ? " 
Warrington  said.  "  How  have  our  young  loves  prospered  ?  Are  we 
going  to  change  our  condition,  and  give  up  our  Chambers .''  Are  you 
going  to  divorce  me,  Arthur,  and  take  unto  yourself  a  wife  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  She  is  very  good-natured  and  lively.  She  sings, 
and  she  don't  mind  smoking.  She'll  have  a  fair  fortune — I  don't 
know  how  much — but  my  uncle  augurs  everything  from  the  Begum's 
generosity,  and  says  that  she  will  come  down  very  handsomely.  And 
I  think  Blanche  is  dev'lish  fond  of  me,"  said  Arthur,  with  a  sigh. 
"  That  means  that  we  accept  her  caresses  and  her  money." 
"  Haven't  we  said  before,  that  life  was  a  transaction?"  Pendennis 
said.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  break  my  heart  about  her.  I  have  told 
her  pretty  fairly  what  my  feelings  are — and — and  have  engaged 
myself  to  her.  And  since  I  saw  her  last,  and  for  the  last  two  months 
especially,  whilst  I  have  been  in  the  country,  I  think  she  has  been 
growing  fonder  and  fonder  of  me;  and  her  letters  to  me,  and  espe- 
cially to  Laura,  seem  to  show  it.  Mine  have  been  simple  enough — no 
raptures  nor  vows,  you  understand — but  looking  upon  the  thing  as  an 
affaire  faitej  and  not  desirous  to  hasten  or  defer  the  completion." 
"  And  Laura  ?  how  is  she  ? "  Warrington  asked  frankly. 

j  "  Laura,  George,"  said  Pen,  looking  his  friend  hard  in  the  face — 
"  by  Heaven,  Laura  is  the  best,  and  noblest,  and  dearest  girl  the  sun 
ever  shone  upon."     His  own  voice  fell  as  he  spoke:  it  seemed  as  if 

(   he  could  hardly  utter  the  words :   he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  his 

\   comrade,  who  took  it  and  nodded  his  head. 


68,  PENDENNIS. 

"  Have  you  only  found  out  that  now,  young  'un?"  Warrington  said 

after  a  pause.  -.  „     .  j  ,    , 

'•  Who  has  not  learned  things  too  late,  George  ?  cned  Arthur,  in 
his  impetuous  way,  gathering  words  and  emotion  as  he  went  on. 
"  Whose  life  is  not  a  disappointment  ?  Who  carries  his  heart  entire 
to  the  grave  without  a  mutilation  ?  I  never  knew  anybody  who  was 
happy  quite  :.  or  who  has  not  had  to  ransom  himself  out  of  the  hands 
of  Fate  with  the  pa>-ment  of  some  dearest  treasure  or  other.  Lucky 
if  we  are  left  alone  afterwards,  when  we  have  paid  our  fine,  and  if  the 
tyrant  visits  us  no  more.  Suppose  I  have  found  out  that  I  have  lost 
the  greatest  prize  in  the  world,  now  that  it  can't  be  mine — that  for 
years  I  had  an  angel  under  my  tent,  and  let  her  go  ?— am  I  the  only 
one— ah,  dear  old  boy,  am  I  the  only  one  ?  And  do  you  think  my 
lot  is  easier  to  bear  because  I  own  that  I  deserve  it  ?  She's  gone 
from  us.  God's  blessing  be  with  her !  She  might  have  stayed,  and  I 
lost  her:  it's  like  Undine:  isn't  it,  George?" 

"  She  was  in  this  room  once,"  said  George. 

He  saw  her  there — he  heard  the  sweet  low  voice — he  saw  the  sweet 
smile  and  eyes  shining  so  kindly— the  face  remembered  so  fondly- 
thought  of  in  what  night-watches— blest  and  loved  always— gone 
now !  A  glass  that  had  held  a  nosegay — a  bible  with  Helen's  hand- 
writing— were  all  that  were  left  him  of  that  brief  flower  of  his  life. 
Say  it  is  a  dream :  say  it  passes :  better  the  recollection  of  a  dream 
than  an  aimless  waking  from  a  blank  stupor. 

The  two  friends  sate  in  silence  awhile,  each  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts  and  aware  of  the  other's.  Pen  broke  it  presently,  by  saying 
that  he  must  go  and  seek  for  his  uncle,  and  report  progress  to  the  old 
gentleman.  The  Major  had  written  in  a  ver>'  bad  humour;  the  Major 
was  getting  old.  "  I  should  like  to  see  you  in  Parliament,  and  snugly 
settled  with  a  comfortable  house  and  an  heir  to  the  name  before  I 
make  my  bow.  Show  me  these,"  the  Major  wrote,  "  and  then,  let  old 
Arthur  Pendennis  make  room  for  the  younger  fellows ;  he  has  walked 
the  Pall  Mall  pave  long  enough." 

"  There  is  a  kindness  about  the  old  heathen,"  said  Warrington. 
"  He  cares  for  somebody  besides  himself,  at  least  for  some  other  part 
of  himself  besides  that  which  is  buttoned  into  his  own  coat ; — for  you 
and  your  race.  He  would  like  to  see  the  progeny  of  the  Pendennises 
multiplying  and  increasing,  and  hopes  that  they  may  inherit  the  land. 
The  old  patriarch  blesses  you  from  the  Club  window  of  Bays's,  and  is 
carried  off  and  buried  under  the  flags  of  St.  James's  Church,  in  sight 
of  Piccadilly,  and  the  cab-stand,  and  the  carriages  going  to  the  levee. 
It  is  an  edifying  ending." 

"  The  new  blood  I  bring  into  the  family,"  mused  Pen,  "  is  rather 
tainted.     If  I  had  chosen,  I  think  my  father-in-law  Amory  would  not 


PENDENA'IS.  683 

have  been  the  progenitor  I  should  have  desired  for  my  race ;  nor  my 
gfrandfather-in-law  Snell;  nor  our  oriental  ancestors.  By  the  way, 
who  was  Amory  ?  Amory  was  lieutenant  of  an  Indiaman.  Blanche 
wrote  some  verses  about  him, — about  the  storm,  the  mountain  wave, 
the  seaman's  grave,  the  gallant  father,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  Amory 
was  drowned  commanding  a  country  ship  between  Calcutta  and 
Sydney;  Amory  and  the  Begum  weren't  happy  together.  She  has 
been  unlucky  in  her  selection  of  husbands,  the  good  old  lady,  for, 
between    ourselves,   a   more   despicable   creature    than    Sir   Francis 

Clavering,  of  Clavcring  Park,  Baronet,  never "     "  Never  legislated 

for  his  country,"  broke  in  Warrington ;  at  which  Pen  blushed  rather. 

"  By  the  way,  at  Baden,"  said  Warrington,  "  I  found  our  friend  the 
Chevalier  Strong  in  great  state,  and  wearing  his  orders.  He  told  me 
that  he  had  quarrelled  with  Clavering,  of  whom  he  seemed  to  have 
almost  as  bad  an  opinion  as  you  have,  and  in  fact,  I  think,  though  I 
will  not  be  certain,  confided  to  me  his  opinion,  that  Clavering  was  an 
utter  scoundrel.  That  fellow  Bloundell,  who  taught  you  card-playing 
at  Oxbridge,  was  with  Strong ;  and  time,  I  think,  has  brought  out  his 
valuable  qualities,  and  rendered  him  a  more  accomplished  rascal  than 
he  was  during  your  undergraduateship.  But  the  king  of  the  place  was 
the  famous  Colonel  Altamont,  who  was  carrying  all  before  him,  giving 
fetes  to  the  whole  society,  and  breaking  the  bank,  it  was  said." 

"  My  uncle  knows  something  about  that  fellow — Clavering  knows 
something  about  him.  There's  something  louche  regarding  him.  But 
come !  I  must  go  to  Bury  Street,  like  a  dutiful  nephew."  And,  taking 
his  hat,  Pen  prepared  to  go. 

"  I  will  walk  too,"  said  Warrington.  And  they  descended  the 
stairs,  stopping,  however,  at  Pen's  chambers,  which,  as  the  reader  has 
been  informed,  were  now  on  the  lower  story. 

Here  Pen  began  sprinkling  himself  with  eau-de-Cologne,  and  care- 
fully scenting  his  hair  and  whiskers  with  that  odoriferous  water. 

"  What  is  the  matter  .?  You've  not  been  smoking.  Is  it  my  pipe 
that  has  poisoned  you  ? "  growled  Warrington. 

"  I'm  going  to  call  upon  some  women,"  said  Pen.  "  I'm — I'm  going 
to  dine  with  'em.  They  are  passing  through  town,  and  are  at  an  hotel 
in  Jermyn  Street." 

Warrington  looked  with  good-natured  interest  at  the  young  fellow 
dandifying  himself  up  to  a  pitch  of  completeness ;  and  appearing  at 
length  in  a  gorgeous  shirt-front  and  neckcloth,  fresh  gloves,  and 
glistening  boots.  George  had  a  pair  of  thick  high-lows,  and  his  old 
shirt  was  torn  about  the  breast,  and  ragged  at  the  collar,  where  his 
blue  beard  had  worn  it. 

"  Well,  young  'un,"  said  he,  simply,  "  I  like  you  to  be  a  buck,  some- 
how.    When  I  walk  about  with  you,  it  is  as  if  I  had  a  rose  in  my 


6S4  PENDENNIS. 

button-hole.  And  you  are  still  affable.  1  don't  think  there  is  any- 
young  fellow  in  the  Temple  turns  out  like  you ;  and  I  don't  believe 
you  were  ever  ashamed  of  walking  with  me  yet." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  George,"  said  Pen. 

"  I  say,  Pen,"  continued  the  other,  sadly,  "  if  you  wTite — if  you 
write  to  Laura,  I  wish  you  would  say  '  God  bless  her '  from  me." 

Pen  blushed;  and  then  looked  at  Warrington;  and  then — and 
then  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughing. 

"  I'm  going  to  dine  with  her,"  he  said.  "  I  brought  her  and  Lady 
Rockminster  up  from  the  country  to-day — made  two  days  of  it — slept 
last  night  at  Bath — I  say,  George,  come  and  dine  too.  I  may  ask  any 
one  I  please,  and  the  old  lady  is  constantly  talking  about  you." 

George  refused.  George  had  an  article  to  wTite.  George  hesitated  ; 
and  oh,  strange  to  say !  at  last  he  agreed  to  go.  It  was  agreed  that 
they  should  go  and  call  upon  the  ladies ;  and  they  marched  away  in 
high  spirits  to  the  hotel  in  Jermyn  Street.  Once  more  the  dear  face 
shone  upon  him ;  once  more  the  sweet  voice  spoke  to  him,  and  the 
tender  hand  pressed  a  welcome. 

There  still  wanted  half-an-hour  to  dinner.  "  You  will  go  and  see 
your  uncle  now,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  old  Lady  Rockminster  said.  "  You 
will  not  bring  him  to  dinner — no — his  old  stories  are  intolerable ;  and 
I  want  to  talk  to  Mr.  Warrington;  I  dare  say  he  wiU  amuse  us.  I 
think  we  have  heard  all  your  stories.  We  have  been  together  for  two 
whole  days,  and  I  think  we  are  getting  tired  of  each  other." 

So,  obeying  her  ladyship's  orders,  Arthur  went  downstairs  and 
walked  to  his  uncle's  lodgings. 


PENDENNIS.  C83 


CHAPTER   LXX. 

FIAT  JUSTITIA. 

THE  dinner  was  served  when  Arthur  returned,  and  Lady  Rock- 
minster  began  to  scold  him  for  arriving  late.  But  Laura,  look- 
ing at  her  cousin,  saw  that  his  face  was  so  pale  and  scared  that  she 
interrupted  her  imperious  patroness ;  and  asked,  with  tender  alarm, 
what  had  happened  ?     Was  Arthur  ill  ? 

Arthur  drank  a  large  bumper  of  sherry.  "  I  have  heard  the  most 
extraordinary  news ;  I  will  tell  you  afterwards,"  he  said,  looking  at  the 
servants.  He  was  very  nervous  and  agitated  during  the  dinner. 
"  Don't  tramp  and  beat  so  with  your  feet  under  the  table,"  Lady 
Rockminstcr  said.  "  You  have  trodden  on  Fido  and  upset  his  saucer. 
You  see  Mr.  Warrington  keeps  his  boots  quiet." 

At  the  dessert — it  seemed  as  if  the  unlucky  dinner  would  never 
be  over — Lady  Rockminster  said,  "  This  dinner  has  been  exceedingly 
stupid.  I  suppose  something  has  happened,  and  that  you  want  to 
speak  to  Laura.  I  will  go  and  have  my  nap.  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
shall  have  any  tea — no.  Good-night,  Mr.  Warrington.  You  must 
come  again,  and  when  there  is  no  business  to  talk  about."  And  the 
old  lady,  tossing  up  her  head,  walked  away  from  the  room  with  great 
dignity. 

George  and  the  others  had  risen  with  her,  and  Warrington  was 
about  to  go  away,  and  was  saying  "  Good-night "  to  Laura,  who,  of 
course,  was  looking  much  alarmed  about  her  cousin,  when  Arthur  said, 
"  Pray,  stay,  George.  You  should  hear  my  news  too,  and  give  me 
your  counsel  in  this  case.     I  hardly  know  how  to  act  in  it." 

"  It's  something  about  Blanche,  Arthur,"  said  Laura,  her  heart 
beating,  and  her  cheek  blushing,  as  she  thought  it  had  never  blushed 
in  her  life. 

"  Yes — and  the  most  extraordinary  story,"  said  Pen.  "  When  I 
left  you  to  go  to  my  uncle's  lodgings,  I  found  his  servant,  Morgan, 
who  has  been  with  him  so  long,  at  the  door,  and  he  said  that  he  and 
his  master  had  parted  that  morning;  that  my  uncle  had  quitted  the 
house,  and  had  gone  to  an  hotel — this  hotel.  I  asked  for  him  when  I 
came  in ;  but  he  was  gone  out  to  dinner.  Morgan  then  said  that  he 
had  something  of  a  most  important  nature  to  communicate  to  me,  and 


686  PENDENNIS. 

beco"ed  me  to  step  into  the  house ;  his  house  it  is  now.  It  appears 
the  scoundrel  has  saved  a  great  deal  of  money  whilst  in  my  uncle's 
service,  and  is  now  a  capitalist  and  a  millionaire,  for  what  I  know. 
Well,  I  went  into  the  house,  and  what  do  you  think  he  told  me  ?  This 
must  be  a  secret  between  us  all — at  least  if  we  can  keep  it,  now  that 
it  is  in  possession  of  that  villain.  Blanche's  father  is  not  dead.  He 
has  come  to  life  again.  The  marriage  between  Clavering  and  the 
Begum  is  no  marriage." 

"  And  Blanche,  I  suppose,  is  her  grandfather's  heir  ? "  said 
Warrington. 

"  Perhaps  :  but  the  child  of  what  a  father  !  Amory  is  an  escaped 
convict — Clavering  knows  it ;  my  uncle  knows  it — and  it  was  with  this 
piece  of  information  held  over  Clavering  iti  terroretn  that  the  wretched 
old  man  got  him  to  give  up  his  borough  to  me." 

"  Blanche  doesn't  know  it,"  said  Laura,  '•'  nor  poor  Lady 
Clavering  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Pen ;  "  Blanche  does  not  even  know  the  history  of  her 
father.  She  knew  that  he  and  her  mother  had  separated,  and  had 
heard  as  a  child,  from  Bonner,  her  nurse,  that  Mr.  Amory  was  drowned 
in  New  South  Wales.  He  was  there  as  a  convict,  not  as  a  ship's 
captain,  as  the  poor  girl' thought.  Lady  Clavering  has  told  me  that 
they  were  not  hippy,  and  that  her  husband  was  a  bad  character. 
She  would  tell  me  all,  she  said,  some  day :  and  I  remember  her  saying 
to  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  it  was  hard  for  a  woman  to  be 
forced  to  own  that  she  was  glad  to  hear  her  husband  was  dead :  and 
that  twice  in  her  life  she  should  have  chosen  so  badly.  What  is  to 
be  done  now  ?  The  man  can't  show  and  claim  his  wife :  death  is 
probably  over  him  if  he  discovers  himself :  return  to  transportation 
certainly.  But  the  rascal  has  held  the  threat  of  discovery  over  Claver- 
ing for  some  time  past,  and  has  extorted  money  from  him  time  after 
time." 

"  It  is  our  friend  Colonel  Altamont,  of  course,"  said  Warrington : 
"  I  see  all  now." 

"  If  the  rascal  comes  back,"  continued  Arthur,  "  Morgan,  who 
knows  his  secret,  will  use  it  over  him— and  having  it  in  his  possession, 

proposes  to  extort  money  from  us  all.     The  d d  rascal  supposed  I 

was  cognisant  of  it,"  said  Pen,  white  with  anger;  "asked  me  if  I 
would  give  him  an  annuity  to  keep  it  quiet ;  threatened  me,  me,  as  if  I 
was  trafficking  with  this  wTetched  old  Begum's  misfortune,  and  would 
extort  a  seat  in  ParHament  out  of  that  miserable  Clavering !  Good 
heavens  !  was  my  uncle  mad,  to  tamper  in  such  a  conspiracy.'  Fancy 
our  mother's  son,  Laura,  trading  on  such  a  treason  ! " 

"  I  can't  fancy  it,  dear  Arthur,"  said  Laura ;  seizing  Arthurs  hand, 
and  kissing  it. 


PENDENNIS.  687 

"No!"  broke  out  Warrington's  deep  voice,  with  a  tremor;  he 
surveyed  the  two  generous  and  loving  young  people  with  a  pang  of 
indescribable  love  and  pain.  "  No.  Our  boy  cant  meddle  with  such 
a  wretched  intrigue  as  that.  Arthur  Pendennis  can't  marry  a  convict's 
daughter;  and  sit  in  Parliament  as  Member  for  the  hulks.  You  must 
wash  your  hands  of  the  whole  affair,  Pen.  You  must  break  off.  You 
must  give  no  explanations  of  why  and  wherefore,  but  state  that  family 
reasons  render  a  match  impossible.  It  is  better  that  those  poor 
women  should  fancy  you  false  to  your  word  than  that  they  should 
know  the  truth.  Besides,  you  can  get  from  that  dog  Clavcring — I  can 
fetch  that  for  you  easily  enough — an  acknowledgment  that  the  reasons 
which  you  have  given  to  him  as  the  head  of  the  family  are  amply 
sufficient  for  breaking  off  the  union.  Don't  you  think  with  me, 
Laura.?"  He  scarcely  dared  to  look  her  in  the  face  as  he  spoke. 
Any  lingering  hope  that  he  might  have — any  feeble  hold  that  he 
might  feel  upon  the  last  spar  of  his  wrecked  fortune,  he  knew  he  was 
casting  away;  and  he  let  the  wave  of  his  calamity  close  over  him. 
Pen  had  started  up  whilst  he  was  speaking,  looking  eagerly  at  him. 
He  turned  his  head  away.  He  saw  Laura  rise  up  also  and  go  to  Pen, 
and  once  more  take  his  hand  and  kiss  it.  "  She  thinks  so  too— God 
bless  her ! "  said  George. 

"  Her  father's  shame  is  not  Blanche's  fault,  dear  Arthur,  is  it  ? '' 
Laura  said,  very  pale,  and  speaking  very  quickly.  "  Suppose  you  had 
been  married,  would  you  desert  her  because  she  had  done  no  wrong  ? 
Are  you  not  pledged  to  her  ?  Would  you  leave  her  because  she  is  in 
misfortune  ?  And  if  she  is  unhappy,  wouldn't  you  console  her  .''  Our 
mother  v/ould,  had  she  been  here."  And,  as  she  spoke,  the  kind  girl 
folded  her  arms  round  him,  and  buried  her  face  upon  his  heart. 

"  Our  mother  is  an  angel  with  God,"  Pen  sobbed  out.  "  And  you 
are  the  dearest  and  best  of  women — the  dearest,  the  dearest,  and  the 
best.  Teach  me  my  duty.  Pray  for  me  that  I  may  do  it — pure  heart. 
God  bless  you — God  bless  you,  my  sister." 

"Amen,"  groaned  out  Warrington,  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 
"  She  is  right,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "  She  can't  do  any  wrong,  I 
think— that  girl."  Indeed,  she  looked  and  smiled  like  an  angel.  Many 
a  day  after,  he  saw  that  smile — saw  her  radiant  face  as  she  looked  up 
at  Pen — saw  her  putting  back  her  curls,  blushing  and  smiling,  and 
still  looking  fondly  towards  him. 

She  leaned  for  a  moment  her  little  fair  hand  on  the  table,  playing 
on  it.    "  And  now,  and  now,"  she  said,  looking  at  the  two  gentlemen — 

"And  what  now?"  asked  George. 

"  And  now  we  will  have  some  tea,"  said  Miss  Laura,  with  her  smile. 

But   before  this  unromantic  conclusion   to  a  rather   sentimental 


6S8  PENDENNIS. 

scene  could  be  suffered  to  take  place,  a  servant  brought  word  that 
Major  Pendennis  had  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  was  waiting  to  see 
his  nephew.  Upon  this  announcement,  Laura,  not  without  some 
alarm,  and  an  appealing  look  at  Pen,  which  said,  "  Behave  yourself 
well— hold  to  the  right,  and  do  your  duty— be  gentle,  but  firm  with 
your  uncle " — Laura,  we  say,  with  these  warnings  written  in  her  face, 
took  leave  of  the  two  gentlemen,  and  retreated  to  her  dormitory. 
Warrington,  who  was  not  generally  fond  of  tea,  yet  grudged  that 
expected  cup  very  much.  Why  could  not  old  Pendennis  have  come 
in  an  hour  later  ?  Well,  an  hour  sooner  or  later,  what  matter  ?  The 
hour  strikes  at  last.  The  inevitable  moment  comes  to  say  Farewell. 
The  hand  is  shaken,  the  door  closed,  and  the  friend  gone ;  and,  the 
brief  joy  over,  you  are  alone.  "  In  which  of  those  many  windows  of 
the  hotel  does  her  light  beam  1 "  perhaps  he  asks  himself  as  he  passes 
down  the  street.  He  strides  away  to  the  smoking-room  of  a  neigh- 
bouring Club,  and  there  applies  himself  to  his  usual  solace  of  a  cigar. 
Men  are  brawling  and  talking  loud  about  politics,  opera-girls,  horse- 
racing,  the  atrocious  tyranny  of  the  committee : — bearing  this  sacred 
secret  about  him,  he  enters  into  this  brawl.  Talk  away,  each  louder 
than  the  other.  Rattle  and  crack  jokes.  Laugh  and  tell  your  wild 
stories.  It  is  strange  to  take  one's  place  and  part  in  the  midst  of  the 
smoke  and  din,  and  think  every  man  here  has  his  secret  eg^o  most 
likely,  which  is  sitting  lonely  and  apart,  away  in  the  private  chamber, 
from  the  loud  game  in  which  the  rest  of  us  is  joining ! 

Arthur,  as  he  traversed  the  passages  of  the  hotel,  felt  his  anger 
rousing  up  within  him.  He  was  indignant  to  think  that  yonder  old 
gentleman  whom  he  was  about  to  meet,  should  have  made  him  such  a 
tool  and  puppet,  and  so  compromised  his  honour  and  good  name.  The 
old  fellow's  hand  was  very  cold  and  shaky  when  Arthur  took  it.  He 
was  coughing ;  he  was  grumbling  over  the  fire ;  Frosch  could  not  bring 

his  dressing-gown  or  arrange  his  papers  as  that  d d  confounded 

impudent  scoundrel  of  a  Morgan.  The  old  gentleman  bemoaned  him- 
self, and  cursed  Morgan's  ingratitude  with  peevish  pathos. 

"  The  confounded  impudent  scoundrel !  He  was  drunk  last  night, 
and  challenged  me  to  fight  him,  Pen :  and,  begad,  at  one  time  I  was  so 
excited  that  I  thought  I  should  have  driven  a  knife  into  him ;  and  the 
infernal  rascal  has  made  ten  thousand  pound,  I  believe— and  deser\-e3 
to  be  hanged,  and  will  be ;  but,  curse  him !  I  wish  he  could  have  lasted 
out  my  time.  He  knew  all  my  ways,  and,  dammy,  when  I  rang  the 
bell,  the  confounded  thief  brought  the  thing  I  wanted— not  like  that 
stupid  German  lout.  And  what  sort  of  time  have  you  had  in  the 
country  ?  Been  a  good  deal  with  Lady  Rockminster  ?  You  can't  do 
better.  She  is  one  of  the  old  school— t';V/7/t'  /co/f,  bonne  ^colc,  hey .' 
Dammy,  they  don't  make  gentlemen  and  ladies  now  j  and  in  fifty  years 


PENDENNIS.  689 

you'll  hardly  know  one  man  from  another.  But  they'll  last  my  time.  I 
ain't  long  for  this  business :  I  am  getting  very  old,  Pen,  my  boy ;  and, 
gad,  I  was  thinking  to-day,  as  I  was  packing  up  my  little  library, 
there's  a  bible  amongst  the  books  that  belonged  to  my  poor  mother ; 
I  would  like  you  to  keep  that,  Pen.  I  was  thinking,  sir,  that  you 
would  most  likely  open  the  box  when  it  was  your  property,  and  the  old 
fellow  was  laid  under  the  sod,  sir,"  And  the  Major  coughed  and 
wagged  his  old  head  over  the  fire. 

His  age — his  kindness,  disarmed  Pen's  anger  somewhat,  and  made 
Arthur  feel  no  little  compunction  for  the  deed  which  he  was  about  to 
do.  He  knew  that  the  announcement  which  he  was  about  to  make 
would  destroy  the  darling  hope  of  the  old  gentleman's  life,  and  create 
in  his  breast  a  woeful  anger  and  commotion. 

"  Hey — hey — I'm  off,  sir,"  nodded  the  Elder ;  "  but  Pd  like  to  read 
a  speech  of  yours  in  the  Times  before  I  go — '  Mr.  Pendennis  said : 
Unaccustomed  as  I  am  to  public  speaking ' — hey,  sir  ?  hey,  Arthur  .^ 
Begad,  you  look  dev'lish  well  and  healthy,  sir.  I  always  said  my 
brother  Jack  would  bring  the  family  right.  You  must  go  down  into 
the  West,  and  buy  the  old  estate,  sir.  Nee  temii  pennd^  hey  ?  We'll 
rise  again,  sir — rise  again  on  the  wing — and,  begad,  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised that  you  will  be  a  Baronet  before  you  die." 

His  words  smote  Pen.  "And  it  is  I,"  he  thought,  "that  am 
going  to  fling  down  the  poor  old  fellow's  air-castle.  Well,  it  must  be. 
Here  goes. — I — I  went  into  your  lodgings  at  Bury  Street,  though  I 
did  not  find  you,"  Pen  slowly  began — "  and  I  talked  with  Morgan, 
uncle." 

"Indeed!"  The  old  gentleman's  cheek  began  to  flush  involun- 
tarily, and  he  muttered,  "  The  cat's  out  of  the  bag  now,  begad ! " 

"  He  told  me  a  story,  sir,  which  gave  me  the  deepest  surprise  and 
pain,"  said  Pen. 

The  Major  tried  to  look  unconcerned.  "  What — that  story  about 
— about  What-d'you-call-'em,  hey  ? " 

"  About  Miss  Amory's  father — about  Lady  Clavering's  first  hus- 
band, and  who  he  is,  and  what." 

"  Hem — a  devilish  awkward  affair !  "  said  the  old  man,  rubbing  his 
nose.  "  I — Pve  been  aware  of  that — eh — confounded  circumstance 
for  some  time." 

"  I  wish  I  had  known  it  sooner,  or  not  at  all,"  said  Arthur, 
gloomily. 

"He  is  all  safe,"  thought  the  Senior,  greatly  relieved.  "  Gad !  I 
should  have  liked  to  keep  it  from  you  altogether — and  from  those 
two  poor  w6men,  who  are  as  innocent  as  unborn  babes  in  the  trans- 
action." 

"  You  are  right.     There  is  no  reason  why  the  two  women  should 

44 


690  PENDEA'NIS. 

hear  it;  and  I  shall  never  tell  them — though  that  villain,  Morgan, 
perhaps  may,"  Arthur  said,  gloomily.  "  He  seems  disposed  to  trade 
upon  his  secret,  and  has  already  proposed  terms  of  ransom  to  me.  I 
wish  I  had  known  of  the  matter  earlier,  sir.  It  is  not  a  very  pleasant 
thought  to  me  that  I  am  engaged  to  a  convict's  daughter." 

"  The  very  reason  why  I  kept  it  from  you — my  dear  boy.  But 
Miss  Amory  is  not  a  convict's  daughter,  don't  you  see  ?  Miss  Amory 
is  the  daughter  of  Lady  Clavering,  with  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  pounds 
for  a  fortune  ;  and  her  father-in-law,  a  Baronet  and  country  gentleman, 
of  high  reputation,  approves  of  .the  match,  and  gives  up  his  seat  in 
Parliament  to  his  son-in-law.     What  can  be  more  simple  ?  " 

"  Is  it  true,  sir?" 

"  Begad,  yes,  it  is  true,  of  course  it's  true.  Amory's  dead.  I  tell 
you  he  is  dead.  The  first  sign  of  life  he  shows,  he  is  dead.  He  can't 
appear.  We  have  him  at  a  dead-lock,  like  the  fellow  in  the  play — 
the  Critic,  hey  ? — devihsh  amusing  play,  that  Critic.  Monstrous  witty 
man,  Sheridan  ;  and  so  was  his  son.  By  Gad,  sir,  when  I  was  at  the 
Cape,  I  remember " 

The  old  gentleman's  garrulity,  and  wish  to  conduct  Arthur  to  the 
Cape,  perhaps  arose  from  a  desire  to  avoid  the  subject  which  was 
nearest  his  nephew's  heart ;  but  Arthur  broke  out,  interrupting  him — 
"  If  you  had  told  me  this  tale  sooner,  I  believe  you  would  have  spared 
me  and  yourself  a  great  deal  of  pain  and  disappointment  ;  and  I  should 
not  have  found  myself  tied  to  an  engagement  from  which  I  can't,  in 
honour,  recede." 

"  No,  begad,  we've  fixed  you— and  a  man  who's  fixed  to  a  seat  in 
Parliament,  and  a  pretty  girl,  with  a  couple  of  thousand  a  year,  is 
fixed  to  no  bad  thing,  let  me  tell  you,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  Great  Heaven,  sir  ! "  said  Arthur  ;  "  are  you  blind  ?  Can't 
you  see?" 

"  See  what,  young  gentleman  ? "  asked  the  other. 

"  See,  that  rather  than  trade  on  this  secret  of  Amor/s,"  Arthur 
cried  out,  "  I  would  go  and  join  my  father-in-law  at  the  hulks  !  See, 
that  rather  than  take  a  seat  in  Parliament  as  a  bribe  from  Clavering 
for  silence,  I  would  take  the  spoons  off  the  table  !  See,  that  you 
have  given  me  a  felon's  daughter  for  a  wife  ;  doomed  me  to  poverty 
and  shame  !  cursed  my  career  when  it  might  have  been — when  it 
might  have  been  so  different  but  for  you  !  Don't  you  see  that  wc 
have  been  playing  a  guilty  game,  and  have  been  over-reached  ;— that 
m  offering  to  marry  this  poor  girl,  for  the  sake  of  her  money,  and  the 
advancement  she  would  bring,  I  was  degrading  myself  and  prostituting 
my  honour." 

^1  WTiat  in  Heaven's  name  do  you  mean,  sir  ? "'  cried  the  old  man. 
"  I  mean  to  say  that  there  is  a  measure  of  baseness  which  I  can't 


PENDENNIS.  691 

pass,"  Arthur  said.  "  I  have  no  other  words  for  it,  and  am  sorry  if 
they  hurt  you.  I  have  felt,  for  months  past,  that  my  conduct  in  this 
affair  has  been  wiclced,  sordid,  and  worldly.  I  am  rightly  punished  by 
the  event,  and  having  sold  myself  for  money  and  a  seat  in  Parliament, 
by  losing  both." 

"  How  do  you  mean  that  you  lose  either?"  shrieked  the  old  gentle- 
man. "  Who  the  devil's  to  take  your  fortune  or  your  seat  away  from 
you  .-•  By  G — ,  Clavering  shall  give  'em  to  you.  You  shall  have  every 
shilling  of  eighty  thousand  pounds." 

"  I'll  keep  my  promise  to  Miss  Amory,  sir,"  said  Arthur. 

"  And,  begad,  her  parents  shall  keep  theirs  to  you." 

"  Not  so,  please  God,"  Arthur  answered.  "  I  have  sinned,  but, 
Heaven  help  me,  I  will  sin  no  more.  I  will  let  Clavering  off  from 
that  bargain  which  was  made  without  my  knowledge.  I  will  take 
no  money  with  Blanche  but  that  which  was  originally  settled  upon 
her  ;  and  I  will  try  to  make  her  happy.  You  have  done  it.  You 
have  brought  this  on  me,  sir.  But  you  knew  no  better  :  and  I 
forgive " 

"Arthur — in  God's  name — in  your  fathei-'s,  who,  by  Heavens,  was 
the  proudest  man  alive,  and  had  the  honour  of  the  family  always  at 
heart — in  mine — for  the  sake  of  a  poor  broken-down  old  fellow,  who 
has  always  been  dev'lish  fond  of  you — don't  fling  this  chance  away — 
I  pray  you,  I  beg  you,  I  implore  you,  my  dear,  dear  boy,  don't  fling 
this  chance  away.  It's  the  making  of  you.  You're  sure  to  get  on. 
You'll  be  a  Baronet ;  it's  three  thousand  a-year  :  dammy,  on  my  knees, 
there,  I  beg  of  you,  don't  do  this." 

And  the  old  man  actually  sank  down  on  his  knees,  and  seizing  one 
of  Arthur's  hands,  looked  up  piteously  at  him.  It  was  cruel  to  remark 
the  shaking  hands,  the  wrinkled  and  quivering  face,  the  old  eyes 
weeping  and  winking,  the  broken  voice.  "Ah,  sir,"  said  Arthur,  with 
a  groan,  "  you  have  brought  pain  enough  on  me,  spare  me  this.  You 
have  wished  me  to  marry  Blanche.  I  marry  her.  For  God's  sake,  sir, 
rise  !     I  can't  bear  it." 

"  You — you  mean  to  say  that  you  will  take  her  as  a  beggar,  and 
be  one  yourself?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  rising  up  and  coughing 
violently. 

"  I  look  at  her  as  a  person  to  whom  a  great  calamity  has  befallen, 
and  to  whom  I  am  promised.  She  cannot  help  the  misfortune  ;  and 
as  she  had  my  word  when  she  was  prosperous,  I  shall  not  withdraw 
it  now  she  is  poor.  I  will  not  take  Clavering's  seat,  unless  afterwards 
it  should  be  given  of  his  free  will.  I  will  not  have  a  shilling  more  than 
her  original  fortune." 

"  Have  the  kindness  to  ring  the  bell,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"  I  have  done  my  best,  and  said  my  say  ;  and  I'm  a   dev'lish  old 


692 


PENDENNIS. 


fellow.  And— and — it  don't  matter.  And— and  Shakspeare  was  right 
— and  Cardinal  Wolsey — begad — '  and  had  I  but  served  my  God  as 
I've  sen-ed  you' — yes,  on  my  knees,  by  Jove,  to  my  own  nephew — 

I    mightn't    have    been Good-night,    sir.   you    needn't   trouble 

yourself  to  call  again." 

Arthur  took  his  hand,  which  the  old  man  left  to  him  ;  it  was  quite 
passive  and  clammy.  He  looked  very  much  oldened  ;  and  it  seemed 
as  if  the  contest  and  defeat  had  quite  broken  him. 

On  the  next  day  he  kept  his  bed,  and  refused  to  see  his  nephew. 


PENDENNIS.  693 


CHAPTER    LXXI. 

IN   WHICH  THE   DECKS   BEGIN   TO'  CLEAR. 

WHEN,  arrayed  in  his  dressing-gown,  Pen  walked  up,  according 
to  custom,  to  Warrington's  chambers  next  morning,  to  inform 
his  friend  of  the  issue  of  the  last  night's  interview  with  his  uncle,  and 
to  ask,  as  usual,  for  George's  advice  and  opinion,  Mrs.  Flanagan,  the 
laundress,  was  the  only  person  whom  Arthur  found  in  the  dear  old 
chambers.  George  had  taken  a  carpet-bag,  and  was  gone.  His 
address  was  to  his  brother's  house  in  Suffolk.  Packages,  addressed 
to  the  newspaper  and  review  for  which  he  wrote,  lay  on  the  table, 
awaiting  delivery, 

"  I  found  him  at  the  table,  when  I  came,  the  dear  gentleman ! " 
Mrs.  Flanagan  said,  "  writing  at  his  papers,  and  one  of  the  candles 
was  burned  out ;  and  hard  as  his  bed  is,  he  wasn't  in  it  all  night,  sir." 

Indeed,  having  sat  at  the  Club  until  the  brawl  there  became  in- 
tolerable to  him,  George  had  walked  home,  and  had  passed  the  night 
tinishing  some  work  on  which  he  was  employed,  and  to  the  comple-" 
tion  of  which  he  bent  himself  with  all  his  might.  The  labour  was 
done,  and  the  night  was  worn  away  somehow,  and  the  tardy  November 
dawn  came  and  looked  in  on  the  young  man  as  he  sate  over  his  desk. 
In  the  next  day's  paper,  or  quarter's  review,  many  of  us  very  likely 
admired  the  work  of  his  genius,  the  variety  of  his  illustration,  the 
tierce  vigour  of  his  satire,  the  depth  of  his  reason.  There  was  no 
hint  in  his  writing  of  the  other  thoughts  which  occupied  him,  and 
always  accompanied  him  in  his  work :  a  tone  more  melancholy  than 
was  customary,  a  satire  more  bitter  and  impatient  than  that  which  he 
afterwards  showed,  may  have  marked  the  writings  of  this  period  of 
his  life  to  the  very  few  persons  who  knew  his  style  or  his  name.  We 
have  said  before,  could  we  know  the  man's  feelings  as  well  as  the 
author's  thoughts — how  interesting  most  books  would  be! — more 
interesting  than  merry.  I  suppose  harlequin's  face  behind  his  mask 
is  always  grave,  if  not  melancholy — certainly  each  man  who  lives  by 
the  pen,  and  happens  to  read  this,  must  remember,  if  he  will,  his  own 
experiences,  and  recall  many  solemn  hours  of  sohtude  and  labour. 
What  a  constant  care  sate  at  the  side  of  the  desk  and  accompanied 
him !     Fever  or  sickness  were  lying  possibly  in  the  next  room :  a  sicl» 


694  PENDENNIS. 

child  might  be  there,  with  a  wife  watching  over  it  terrified  and  in 
prayer ;  or  grief  might  be  bearing  him  down,  and  the  cruel  mist  before 
the  eyes  rendering  the  paper  scarce  visible  as  he  wrote  on  it,  and  the 
inexorable  necessity  drove  on  the  pen.  What  man  among  us  has  not 
had  nights  and  hours  like  these  ?  But  to  the  manly  heart — severe  as 
these  pangs  are,  they  are  endurable:  long  as  the  night  seems,  the 
dawn  comes  at  last,  and  the  wounds  heal,  and  the  fever  abates,  and 
rest  comes,  and  you  can  afford  to  look  back  on  the  past  misery  with 
feelings  that  are  anything  but  bitter. 

Two  or  three  books  for  reference,  fragments  of  torn-up  manuscript, 
drawers  open,  pens  and  inkstand,  lines  half  visible  on  the  blotting- 
paper,  a  bit  of  sealing-wax  twisted  and  bitten  and  broken  into  sundry 
pieces — such  relics  as  these  were  about  the  table,  and  Pen  flung  him- 
self down  in  George's  empty  chair — noting  things  according  to  his 
wont,  or  in  spite  of  himself.  There  was  a  gap  in  the  book-case  (next 
to  the  old  CoUege  Plato,  with  the  Boniface  Arms),  where  Helen's 
bible  used  to  be.  He  has  taken  that  with  him,  thought  Pen.  He 
knew  why  his  friend  was  gone.     Dear,  dear  old  George ! 

Pen  rubbed  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  Oh,  how  much  wiser,  how 
much  better,  how  much  nobler  he  is  than  I,  he  thought.  Where  was 
such  a  friend,  or  such  a  brave  heart  ?  Where  shall  I  ever  hear  such  a 
frank  voice,  and  kind  laughter  ?  Where  shall  I  ever  see  such  a  true 
gentleman  ?  No  wonder  she  loved  him.  God  bless  him !  What  was 
I  compared  to  him  ?  What  could  she  do  else  but  love  him  ?  To  the 
end  of  our  days  we  wiU  be  her  brothers,  as  fate  wills  that  we  can  be 
no  more.  We'll  be  her  knights,  and  wait  on  her;  and  when  we're  old, 
we'll  say  how  we  loved  her.     Dear,  dear  old  George ! 

When  Pen  descended  to  his  own  chambers,  his  eye  fell  on  the 
letter-box  of  his  outer-door,  which  he  had  previously  overlooked,  and 
there  was  a  little  note  to  A.  P.,  Esq.,  in  George's  well-known  hand- 
writing, George  had  put  into  Pen's  box  probably  as  he  was  going  away. 

"  Dr  Pen, — I  shall  be  half  way  home  when  you  breakfast,  and  intend  to 
stay  over  Christmas,  in  Suffk,  or  elsewhere. 

"I  have  my  own  opinion  of  the  issue  of  matters  about  which  we  talked  in 

J St.  yesterday;  and  think  my  presence  de  trap.     Vale. 

"G.  W. 

"  Give  my  very  best  regards  and  adieux  to  your  cousin." 

And  so  George  was  gone,  and  Mrs.  Flanagan,  the  laundress,  ruled 
over  his  empty  chambers. 

Pen  of  course  had  to  go  and  see  his  uncle  on  the  day  after  their 
colloquy;  and  not  being  admitted,  he  naturally  went  to  Lady  Rock- 
minster's  apartments,  where  the  old  lady  instantly  asked  for  Bluebeard, 
and  uisisted  that  he  should  come  to  dinner. 


PENDENNJS.  695 

"  Bluebeard  is  gone,"  Pen  said,  and  he  took  out  poor  George's  scrap 
of  paper,  and  handed  it  to  Laura,  who  looked  at  it— did  not  look  at 
Pen  in  return,  but  passed  the  paper  back  to  him,  and  walked  away. 
Pen  rushed  into  an  eloquent  culogium  upon  his  dear  old  George  to 
Lady  Rockminster,  who  was  astonished  at  his  enthusiasm.  She  had 
never  heard  him  so  warm  in  praise  of  anybody ;  and  told  him,  with  her 
usual  frankness,  that  she  didn't  think  it  had  been  in  his  nature  to  care 
so  much  about  any  other  person. 

As  Mr.  Pendennis  was  passing  through  Waterloo  Place,  in  one  of 
his  many  walks  to  the  hotel  where  Laura  lived,  and  whither  duty  to  his 
uncle  carried  Arthur  every  day,  he  saw  issuing  from  Messrs.  Gimcrack's 
celebrated  shop  an  old  friend,  who  was  followed  to  his  brougham  by 
an  obsequious  shopman  bearing  parcels.  The  gentleman  was  in  the 
deepest  mourning :  the  brougham,  the  driver,  and  the  horse,  were  in 
mourning.  Grief  in  easy  circumstances,  and  supported  by  the  comfort- 
ablest  springs  and  cushions,  was  typified  in  the  equipage  and  the  little 
gentleman,  its  proprietor. 

'•What,  Foker!  Hail,  Foker!"  cried  out  Pen^the  reader,  no 
doubt,  has  likewise  recognized  Arthur's  old  schoolfellow — and  he  held 
out  his  hand  to  the  heir  of  the  late  lamented  John  Henry  Foker,  Esq., 
the  master  of  Logwood  and  other  houses,  the  principal  partner  in  the 
great  brewery  of  Foker  &  Co. :  the  greater  portion  of  Foker's  Entire. 

A  little  hand,  covered  with  a  glove  of  the  deepest  ebony,  and  set  off 
by  three  inches  of  a  snowy  wristband,  was  put  forth  to  meet  Arthur's 
salutation.  The  other  little  hand  held  a  little  morocco  case,  containing, 
no  doubt,  something  precious,  of  which  Mr.  Foker  had  just  become  pro- 
prietor in  Messrs.  Gimcrack's  shop.  Pen's  keen  eyes  and  satiric  turn 
showed  him  at  once  upon  what  errand  Mr.  Foker  had  been  employed; 
and  he  thought  of  the  heir  in  Horace  pouring  forth  the  gathered  wine 
of  his  father's  vats ;  and  that  human  nature  is  pretty  much  the  same  in 
Regent  Street  as  in  the  Via  Sacra. 

"  Le  Roi  est  mort.     Vive  le  Roi ! "  said  Arthur. 

"  Ah ! "  said  the  other.  "  Yes.  Thank  you — very  much  obliged. 
"  How  do  you  do,  Pen  ? — very  busy — good-by ! "  and  he  jumped  into 
the  black  brougham,  and  sate  like  a  little  black  Care  behind  the 
black  coachman.  He  had  blushed  on  seeing  Pen,  and  shown  other 
signs  of  guilt  and  perturbation,  which  Pen  attributed  to  the  novelty 
of  his  situation;  and  on  which  he  began  to  speculate  in  his  usual 
sardonic  manner. 

"  Yes :  so  wags  the  world,"  thought  Pen.  "  The  stone  closes  over 
Harrj'  the  Fourth,  and  Harry  the  Fifth  reigns  in  his  stead.  The  old 
ministers  at  the  brewery  come  and  kneel  before  him  with  their  books ; 
the  draymen,  his  subjects,  fling  up  their  red  caps,  and  shout  for  him. 
What  a  grave  deference  and  sympathy  the  bankers  and  the  lawyers 


696  ■  PENDENNIS. 

show :  There  was  too  great  a  stake  at  issue  between  those  two  that 
they  should  ever  love  each  other  very  cordially.  As  long  as  one  man 
keeps  another  out  of  twenty  thousand  a-year,  the  younger  must  be 
always  hankering  after  the  crown,  and  the  wish  must  be  the  father  to 
the  thought  of  possession.  Thank  Heaven,  there  was  no  thought  of 
money  between  me  and  our  dear  mother,  Laura." 

"  There  never  could  have  been.  You  would  have  spumed  it ! "  cried 
Laura.  "  Why  make  yourself  more  selfish  than  you  are,  Pen ;  and  allow 
your  mind  to  own,  for  an  instant,  that  it  would  have  entertained  such 
— such  dreadful  meanness  ?  You  make  me  blush  for  you,  Arthur :  you 
make  me — "  her  eyes  finished  this  sentence,  and  she  passed  her  hand- 
kerchief across  them. 

'•  There  are  some  truths  which  women  will  never  acknowledge," 
Pen  said,  "  and  from  which  your  modesty  always  turns  away.  I  do  not 
say  that  I  never  knew  the  feeling,  only  that  I  am  glad  I  had  not  the 
temptation.     Is  there  any  harm  in  that  confession  of  weakness  ?" 

"  We  are  all  taught  to  ask  to  be  delivered  from  evil,  Arthur,"  said 
Laura,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  am  glad  if  you  were  spared  from  that  great 
crime ;  and  only  sorry  to  think  that  you  could  by  any  possibility  have 
been  led  into  it.  But  you  never  could;  and  you  don't  think  you 
could.  Your  acts  are  generous  and  kind :  you  disdain  mean  actions. 
You  take  Blanche  without  money,  and  without  a  bribe.  Yes,  thanks 
be  to  Heaven,  dear  brother.  You  could  not  have  sold  yourself  away; 
I  knew  you  could  not  when  it  came  to  the  day,  and  you  did  not. 
Praise  be — be  where  praise  is  due.  Why  does  this  horrid  scepticism 
pursue  you,  my  Arthur .?  Why  doubt  and  sneer  at  your  own  heart — 
at  every  one's .'  Oh,  if  you  knew  the  pain  you  give  me — how  I  lie 
awake  and  think  of  those  hard  sentences,  dear  brother,  and  wish  them 
unspoken,  unthought ! " 

"  Do  I  cause  you  many  thoughts  and  many  tears,  Laura.?"  asked 
Arthur.  The  fulness  of  innocent  love  beamed  from  her  in  reply.  A 
smile  heavenly  pure,  a  glance  of  unutterable  tenderness,  sympathy, 
pity,  shone  in  her  face — all  which  indications  of  love  and  purity  Arthur 
beheld  and  worshipped  in  her,  as  you  would  watch  them  in  a  child,  as 
one  fancies  one  might  regard  them  in  an  angel. 

"  I— I  don't  know  what  I  have  done,"  he  said,  simply,  '•  to  have 
merited  such  regard  from  two  such  women.  It  is  like  undeser\-ed 
praise,  Laura— or  too  much  good  fortune,  which  frightens  one — or  a 
great  post,  when  a  man  feels  that  he  is  not  fit  for  it.  Ah,  sister,  how 
weak  and  wicked  we  are;  how  spotless,  and  full  of  love  and  truth, 
Heaven  made  you  \  I  think  for  some  of  you  there  has  been  no  fall."' 
he  said,  looking  at  the  charming  girl  with  an  almost  paternal  glance 
of  admiration.  '•  You  can't  help  having  sweet  thoughts,  and  doing 
good  actions.     Dear  creature!  they  are  the  f.owcrs  which  you  bear.'' 


PENDENNIS.  697 

"  And  what  else,  sir  ?"  asked  Laura.  "  I  see  a  sneer  coming  over 
your  face.  What  is  it  .^  Why  does  it  come,  to  drive  all  the  good 
thoughts  away  ?  " 

"  A  sneer,  is  there  ?  I  was  thinking,  my  dear,  that  nature  in 
making  you  so  good  and  loving  did  very  well :  but — " 

"  But  what  ?  What  is  that  wicked  but  ?  and  why  are  you  always 
calling  it  up?" 

"  But  will  come  in  spite  of  us.  But  is  reflection.  But  is  the 
sceptic's  familiar,  with  whom  he  has  made  a  compact :  and  if  he 
forgets  it,  and  indulges  in  happy  day-dreams,  or  building  of  air-castles, 
or  listens  to  sweet  music,  let  us  say,  or  to  the  bells  ringing  to  church, 
But  taps  at  the  door,  and  says.  Master,  I  am  here.  You  are  my 
master ;  but  I  am  yours.  Go  where  you  will  you  can't  travel  without 
me.  I  will  whisper  to  you  when  you  are  on  your  knees  at  church. 
I  will  be  at  your  marriage  pillow.  I  will  sit  down  at  your  table  with 
your  children.  I  will  be  behind  your  death-bed  curtain.  That  is  what 
But  is,"  Pen  said. 

"  Pen,  you  frighten  me,"  cried  Laura. 

"  Do  you  know  what  But  came  and  said  to  me  just  now,  when  I 
was  looking  at  you .''  But  said.  If  that  girl  had  reason  as  well  as  love, 
she  would  love  you  no  more.  If  she  knew  you  as  you  are — the  sullied, 
selfish  being  which  jw^  know — she  must  part  from  you,  and  could  give 
you  no  love  and  no  sympathy.  Didn't  I  say,"  he  added,  fondly,  "  that 
some  of  you  seem  exempt  from  the  fall }  Love  you  know ;  but  the 
knowledge  of  evil  is  kept  from  you." 

"  What  is  this  you  young  folks  arc  talking  about  .^ "  asked  Lady 
Rockminster,  who  at  this  moment  made  her  appearance  in  the  room, 
having  performed,  in  the  mystic  retirement  of  her  own  apartments, 
and  under  the  hands  of  her  attendant,  those  elaborate  toilette-rites 
without  which  the  worthy  old  lady  never  presented  herself  to  public 
view.     "  Mr.  Pendennis,  you  are  always  coming  here." 

"  It  is  very  pleasant  to  be  here,"  Arthur  said :  "  and  we  were 
talking,  when  you  came  in,  about  my  friend  Foker,  whom  I  met  just 
now ;  and  who,  as  your  ladyship  knows,  has  succeeded  to  his  father's 
kingdom." 

"  He  has  a  verj'  fine  property,  he  has  fifteen  thousand  a-year.  He 
is  my  cousin.  He  is  a  very  worthy  young  man.  He  must  come  and 
see  me,"  said  Lady  Rockminster,  with  a  look  at  Laura. 

"  He  has  been  engaged  for  many  years  past  to  his  cousin.  Lady — " 

"  Lady  Ann  is  a  foolish  little  chit,"  Lady  Rockminster  said,  with 

much  dignity :  "  and  I  have  no  patience  with  her.     She  has  outraged 

every  feeling  of  society.    She  has  broken  her  father's  heart,  and  thrown 

away  fifteen  thousand  a-year." 

"  Thrown  away  !     What  has  happened  ? "  asked  Pen. 


698  PENDENNIS. 

"  It  will  be  the  talk  of  the  town  in  a  day  or  two  ;  and  there  is  no 
need  why  I  should  keep  the  secret  any  longer,"  said  Lady  Rock- 
minster,  who  had  written  and  received  a  dozen  letters  on  the  subject. 
"I  had  a  letter  yesterday  from  my  daughter,  who  was  staying  at 
Drummington  until  all  the  world  was  obliged  to  go  away  on  account 
of  the  frightful  catastrophe  which  happened  there.  When  Mr.  Foker 
came  home  from  Nice,  and  after  the  funeral,  Lady  Ann  went  down  on 
her  knees  to  her  father,  said  that  she  never  could  marry  her  cousin,  that 
she  had  contracted  another  attachment,  and  that  she  must  die  rather 
than  fulfil  her  contract.  Poor  Lord  Roshervdlle,  who  is  dreadfully 
embarrassed,  showed  his  daughter  what  the  state  of  his  affairs  was,  and 
that  it  was  necessary  that  the  arrangements  should  take  place ;  and, 
in  fine,  we  all  supposed  that  she  had  hstened  to  reason,  and  intended 
to  comply  wuth  the  desires  of  her  family.  But  what  has  happened 
— last  Thursday  she  went  out  after  breakfast  with  her  maid,  and  was 
married  in  the  very  church  in  Drummington  Park  to  Mr.  Hobson,  her 
father's  own  chaplain  and  her  brother's  tutor ;  a  red-haired  widower 
with  two  children.  Poor  dear  Rosherville  is  in  a  dreadful  way :  he 
wishes  Henry  Foker  should  marry  Alice  or  Barbara;  but  Alice  is 
marked  with  the  small-pox,  and  Barbara  is  ten  years  older  than  he  is. 
And,  of  course,  now  the  young  man  is  his  own  master,  he  will  think  of 
choosing  for  himself.  The  blow  on  Lady  Agnes  is  very  cruel.  She  is 
inconsolable.  She  has  the  house  in  Grosvenor  Street  for  her  life,  and 
her  settlement,  which  was  very  handsome.  Have  you  not  met  her  ? 
Yes,  she  dined  one  day  at  Lady  Clavering's — the  first  day  I  saw  you, 
and  a  very  disagreeable  young  man  I  thought  you  were.  But  I  have 
formed  you.  We  have  formed  him,  haven't  we,  Laura  ?  Where  is 
Bluebeard?  let  him  come.  That  horrid  Grindley,  the  dentist,  will 
keep  me  in  town  another  week." 

To  the  latter  part  of  her  ladyship's  speech  Arthur  gave  no  ear. 
He  was  thinking  for  whom  could  Foker  be  purchasing  those  trinkets 
which  he  was  carrying  away  from  the  jeweller's  ?  Why  did  Harry 
seem  anxious  to  avoid  him?  Could  he  be  still  faithful  to  the  attach- 
ment which  had  agitated  him  so  much,  and  sent  him  abroad  eighteen 
months  back  ?  Psha !  The  bracelets  and  presents  were  for  some  of 
Harry's  old  friends  of  the  Opera  or  the  French  Theatre.  Rumours 
from  Naples  and  Paris,  rumours  such  as  are  borne  to  Club  smoking- 
rooms,  had  announced  that  the  young  man  had  found  distractions ; 
or,  precluded  from  his  virtuous  attachment,  the  poor  fellow  had  flung 
himself  back  upon  his  old  companions  and  amusements — not  the  only 
man  or  woman  whom  society  forces  into  evil,  or  debars  from  good  : 
not  the  only  victim  of  the  world's  selfish  and  wicked  laws. 

As  a  good  thing  when  it  is  to  be  done  cannot  be  done  too  quickly, 


PENDENNIS.  699 

Laura  was  anxious  that  Pen's  marriage  intentions  should  be  put  into 
execution  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  pressed  on  his  arrangements 
with  rather  a  feverish  anxiety.  Why  could  she  not  wait  ?  Pen  could 
afford  to  do  so  with  perfect  equanimity,  but  Laura  would  hear  of  no 
delay.  She  wrote  to  Pen  :  she  implored  Pen  :  she  used  every  means 
to  urge  expedition.  It  seemed  as  if  she  could  have  no  rest  until 
Arthur's  happiness  was  complete. 

She  offered  herself  to  dearest  Blanche  to  come  and  stay  at  Tun- 
bridge  with  her,  when  Lady  Rockminstcr  should  go  on  her  intended 
visit  to  the  reigning  house  of  Rockminstcr;  and  although  the  old 
dowager  scolded,  and  ordered,  and  commanded,  Laura  was  deaf  and 
disobedient ;  she  must  go  to  Tunbridge,  she  would  go  to  Tunbridge ; 
she  who  ordinarily  had  no  will  of  her  own,  and  complied  smilingly 
with  anybody's  whim  and  caprices,  showed  the  most  selfish  and 
obstinate  determination  in  this  instance.  The  dowager  lady  must 
nurse  herself  in  her  rheumatism,  she  must  read  herself  to  sleep,  if  she 
would  not  hear  her  maid,  whose  voice  croaked,  and  who  made  sad 
work  of  the  sentimental  passages  in  the  novels — Laura  must  go,  and 
be  with  her  new  sister.  In  another  week,  she  proposed,  with  many 
loves  and  regards  to  dear  Lady  Clavering,  to  pass  some  time  with 
dearest  Blanche. 

Dearest  Blanche  wrote  instantly  in  reply  to  dearest  Laura's  No.  i, 
to  say  with  what  extreme  delight  she  should  welcome  her  sister :  how 
charming  it  would  be  to  practise  their  old  duets  together,  to  wander 
o'er  the  grassy  sward,  and  amidst  the  yellowing  woods  of  Penshurst 
and  Southborough !  Blanche  counted  the  hours  till  she  should 
embrace  her  dearest  friend. 

Laura,  No.  2,  expressed  her  delight  at  dearest  Blanche's  affectionate 
reply.  She  hoped  that  their  friendship  would  never  diminish ;  that  the 
confidence  between  them  would  grow  in  after  years ;  that  they  should 
have  no  secrets  from  each  other ;  that  the  aim  of  the  life  of  each  would 
be  to  make  one  person  happy. 

Blanche,  No.  2,  followed  in  two  days.     "  How  provoking !     Their 

house  was  very  small,  the  two  spare  bed-rooms  were  occupied  by  that 

horrid  Mrs.  Planter  and  her  daughter,  who  had  thought  proper  to  faU 

I  ill  (she  always  fell  iU  in  country-houses),  and  she  could  not  or  would 

I  not  be  moved  for  some  days." 

!  Laura,  No.  3  :  "It  was  indeed  very  provoking.  L.  had  hoped  to 
hear  one  of  dearest  B.'s  dear  songs  on  Friday :  but  she  was  the  more 
'  consoled  to  wait  because  Lady  R.  was  not  very  well,  and  liked  to  be 
j  nursed  by  her.  Poor  Major  Pendennis  was  very  unwell,  too,  in  the 
.  same  hotel — too  unwell  even  to  see  Arthur,  who  was  constant  in  his 
1  calls  on  his  uncle.  Arthur's  heart  was  full  of  tenderness  and  affection. 
1  She  had  known  Arthur  all  her  life.     She  would  answer  " — yes,  even  in 


700  PENDENNIS. 

italics  she  would  answer — "  for  kis  kindness,  his  goodness,  and  his 
gentleness." 

Blanche,  No.  3  :  "  What  is  this  most  surprising,  most  extra- 
ordinary letter  from  A.  P.  ?  What  does  dearest  Laura  know  about 
it  ?  What  has  happened  ?  What,  what  mysterj'  is  enveloped  under 
his  frightful  reserve  ? " 

Blanche,  No.  3,  requires  an  explanation ;  and  it  cannot  be  better 
given  than  in  the  surprising  and  mysterious  letter  of  Arthur  Pen- 
dennis. 


PENDENNIS.  701 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

MR.   AND   MRS.   SAM   HUXTER. 

"  "p\EAR  BLANCHE,"  Arthur  wrote,  "you  are  always  reading 
•L^  and  dreaming  pretty  dramas,  and  exciting  romances  in  real 
life,  are  you  now  prepared  to  enact  a  part  of  one  ?  And  not  the 
pleasantest  part,  dear  Blanche,  that  in  which  the  heroine  takes  pos- 
session of  her  father's  palace  and  wealth,  and  introducing  her  husband 
to  the  loyal  retainers  and  faithful  vassals,  greets  her  happy  bridegroom 
with  '  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine,' — but  the  other  character,  that  of 
the  luckless  lady,  who  suddenly  discovers  that  she  is  not  the  Prince's 
wife,  but  Claude  Melnotte's  the  beggar's  :  that  of  Alnaschar's  wife,  who 
comes  in  just  as  her  husband  has  kicked  over  the  tray  of  porcelain 
which  was  to  be  the  making  of  his  fortune — But  stay ;  Alnaschar,  who 
kicked  down  the  china,  was  not  a  married  man  ;  he  had  cast  his  eye 
on  the  Vizier's  daughter,  and  his  hopes  of  her  went  to  the  ground  with 
the  shattered  bowls  and  tea-cups. 

"  Will  you  be  the  Vizier's  daughter,  and  refuse  and  laugh  to  scorn 
Alnaschar,  or  will  you  be  the  Lady  of  Lyons,  and  love  the  penniless 
Claude  Melnotte  ?  I  will  act  that  part  if  you  like.  I  will  love  you  my 
best  in  return.  I  will  do  my  all  to  make  your  humble  life  happy :  for 
humble  it  will  be  :  at  least  the  odds  are  against  any  other  conclusion ; 
we  shall  live  and  die  in  a  poor  prosy  humdrum  way.  There  will  be 
no  stars  and  epaulettes  for  the  hero  of  our  story.  I  shall  write  one  or 
two  more  stories,  which  will  presently  be  forgotten.  I  shall  be  called 
to  the  Bar,  and  try  to  get  on  in  my  profession ;  perhaps  some  day,  if 
I  am  very  lucky,  and  work  very  hard  (which  is  absurd),  I  may  get  a 
colonial  appointment,  and  you  may  be  an  Indian  Judge's  lady.  Mean- 
while I  shall  buy  back  the  "  Pall  Mall  Gazette ; "  the  publishers  are 
tired  of  it  since  the  death  of  poor  Shandon,  and  will  sell  it  for  a  small 
sum.  Warrington  will  be  my  right  hand,  and  write  it  up  to  a  respect- 
able sale.  I  will  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Finucane  the  sub-editor,  and  I 
know  who  in  the  end  will  be  Mrs.  Finucane, — a  very  nice  gentle 
creature,  who  has  lived  sweetly  through  a  sad  life- -and  we  will  jog 
on,  I  say,  and  look  out  for  better  times,  and  earn  our  living  decently. 
You  shall  have  the  opera-boxes,  and  superintend  the  fashionable 
intelligence,  and  break  your  little  heart  in  the  poet's  corner.     Shall 


■^T^ 


'mm 


.2:i:"Uttf 


7o>  PENDENNIS. 

we  Htc  over  the  offices  ? — there  are  four  very  good  rooms,  a  Kitchen, 
and  a  garret  for  Laura,  in  Catherine  Street  in  the  Strand;  or  would 
you  like  a  house  in  the  Waterloo  Road  ?— it  would  be  very  pleasant, 
only  there  is  that  halfpenny  toll  at  the  Bridge.  The  boys  may  go  to 
King's  College,  mayn't  they  ?     Does  all  this  read  to  you  like  a  joke  ? 

"  Ah,  dear  Blanche,  it  is  no  joke,  and  I  am  sober,  and  telling  the 
truth.  Our  fine  day-dreams  are  gone.  Our  carriage  has  whirled  out 
of  sight,  like  Cinderella's ;  our  house  in  Belgravia  has  been  whisked 
away  into  the  air  by  a  malevolent  Genius,  and  I  am  no  more  a 
Member  of  Parliament  than  I  am  a  Bishop  on  his  bench  in  the  House 
of  Lords,  or  a  Duke  with  a  Garter  at  his  knee.  You  know  pretty  well 
what  my  property  is,  and  your  own  little  fortune :  we  may  have  enough 
with  those  two  to  live  in  decent  comfort :  to  take  a  cab  sometimes 
when  we  go  out  to  see  our  friends,  and  not  to  deny  ourselves  an  omni- 
bus when  we  are  tired.  But  that  is  all:  is  that  enough  for  you,  my 
little  dainty  lady  ?  I  doubt  sometimes  whether  you  can  bear  the  life  I 
offer  you — at  least,  it  is  fair  that  you  should  know  what  it  will  be.  If 
you  say,  '  Yes,  Arthur,  I  will  follow  your  fate,  whatever  it  may  be,  and 
be  a  loyal  and  loving  wife  to  aid  and  cheer  you ' — come  to  me,  dear 
Blanche,  and  may  God  help  me  so  that  I  may  do  my  duty  to  you. 
If  not,  and  you  look  to  a  higher  station,  I  must  not  bar  Blanche's 
fortune — I  will  stand  in  the  crowd,  and  see  your  ladyship  go  to  Court 
when  you  are  presented,  and  you  shall  give  me  a  smile  from  your 
chariot  window.  I  saw  Lady  Mirabel  going  to  the  drawing-room  last 
season :  the  happy  husband  at  her  side  glittered  with  stars  and  cordons. 
All  the  flowers  in  the  garden  bloomed  in  the  coachman's  bosom.  Will 
you  have  these  and  the  chariot,  or  walk  on  foot  and  mend  your  hus- 
band's stockings  ? 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  now— afterwards  I  might,  should  the  day  come 
when  we  may  have  no  secrets  from  one  another— what  has  happened 
within  the  last  few  hours,  which  has  changed  all  my  prospects  in  life : 
but  so  it  is,  that  I  have  learned  something  which  forces  me  to  give  up 
the  plans  which  I  had  formed,  and  many  vain  and  ambitious  hopes 
in  which  I  had  been  indulging.  I  have  wTitten  and  despatched  a 
letter  to  Sir  Francis  Clavering,  saying  that  I  cannot  accept  his  seat  in 
Parliament  until  after  my  marriage ;  in  like  manner  I  cannot  and  will 
not  accept  any  larger  fortune  with  you  than  that  which  has  always 
belonged  to  you  since  your  grandfather's  death  and  the  birth  of  your 
half-brother.  Your  good  mother  is  not  in  the  least  aware— I  hope'  she 
never  may  be— of  the  reasons  which  force  me  to  this  ver>'  strange 
decision.  They  arise  from  a  painful  circumstance,  which  is  attributable 
to  none  of  our  faults;  but,  having  once  befallen,  thcv  are  as  fatal  and 
irreparable  as  that  shock  which  overset  honest  Alnaschar's  porcelain, 
and  shattered  all  his  hopes  beyond  the  power  of  mending.     I  write 


PENDENNIS.  703 

gaily  enough,  for  there  is  no  use  in  bewailing  such  a  hopeless  mis- 
chance. We  have  not  drawn  the  great  prize  in  the  lottery,  dear 
Blanche:  but  I  shall  be  contented  enough  without  it,  if  you  can  be  so; 
and  I  repeat,  with  all  my  heart,  that  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  you 
happy. 

"  And  now,  what  news  shall  I  give  you  ?  My  uncle  is  very  unwell, 
and  takes  my  refusal  of  the  seat  in  Parliament  in  sad  dudgeon :  the 
scheme  was  his,  poor  old  gentleman,  and  he  naturally  bemoans  its 
failure.  But  Warrington,  Laura,  and  I  had  a  council  of  war:  they 
know  this  awful  secret,  and  back  me  in  my  decision.  You  must  love 
George  as  you  love  what  is  generous  and  upright  and  noble ;  and  as 
for  Laura — she  must  be  our  Sister,  Blanche,  our  Saint,  our  good 
Angel.  With  two  such  friends  at  home,  what  need  we  care  for  the 
world  without,  or  who  is  member  for  Clavering,  or  who  is  asked  or 
not  asked  to  the  great  balls  of  the  season  ? " 

To  this  frank  communication  came  back  the  letter  from  Blanche 
to  Laura,  and  one  to  Pen  himself,  which  perhaps  his  own  letter  justi- 
fied. "  You  are  spoiled  by  the  world,"  Blanche  wrote ;  "  you  do  not 
love  your  poor  Blanche  as  she  would  be  loved,  or  you  would  not  offer 
thus  lightly  to  take  her  or  to  leave  her.  No,  Arthur,  you  love  me  not 
— a  man  of  the  world,  you  have  given  me  your  plighted  troth,  and  are 
ready  to  redeem  it;  but  that  entire  affection,  that  love  whole  and 
abiding,  where — where  is  that  vision  of  my  youth  ?  I  am  but  a  pastime 
of  your  life,  and  I  would  be  its  all ; — but  a  fleeting  thought,  and  I 
I  would  be  your  whole  soul.  I  would  have  our  two  hearts  one ;  but  ah, 
;  my  Arthur,  how  lonely  yours  is !  how  little  you  give  me  of  it !  You 
speak  of  our  parting  with  a  smile  on  your  lip ;  of  our  meeting,  and 
you  care  not  to  hasten  it !  Is  life  but  a  disillusion,  then,  and  are  the 
[  flowers  of  our  garden  faded  away  ?  I  have  wept — I  have  prayed — I 
have  passed  sleepless  hours — I  have  shed  bitter,  bitter  tears  over  your 
letter !  To  you  I  bring  the  gushing  poesy  of  my  being — the  yearnings 
of  the  soul  that  longs  to  be  loved — that  pines  for  love,  love,  love, 
beyond  all ! — that  flings  itself  at  your  feet,  and  cries,  Love  me,  Arthur ! 
Your  heart  beats  no  quicker  at  the  kneeling  appeal  of  my  love ! — your 
proud  eye  is  dimmed  by  no  tear  of  sympathy  ! — you  accept  my  soul's 
treasure  as  though  'twere  dross !  not  the  pearls  from  the  unfathomable 
deeps  of  affection !  not  the  diamonds  from  the  caverns  of  the  heart. 
You  treat  me  like  a  slave,  and  bid  me  bow  to  my  master !  Is  this  the 
guerdon  of  a  free  maiden — is  this  the  price  of  a  life's  passion  ?  Ah 
me !  when  was  it  otherwise  ?  when  did  love  meet  with  aught  but  dis- 
appointment ?  Could  I  hope  (fond  fool !)  to  be  the  exception  to  the 
lot  of  my  race ;  and  lay  my  fevered  brow  on  a  heart  that  compre- 
hended my  own  ?  Foolish  girl  that  I  was !  One  by  one,  all  the 
flowers  of  my  young  life  have  faded  away;  and  this,  the  last,  the 


704  PENDENNIS. 

sweetest,  the  dearest,  the  fondly,  the  madly  loved,  the  wildly  cherished 
—where  is  it  ?  But  no  more  of  this.  Heed  not  my  bleeding  heart.— 
Bless  you,  bless  you  always,  Arthur ! 

"  I  will  write  more  when  I  am  more  collected  My  racking  brain 
renders  thought  almost  impossible.  I  long  to  see  Laura  !  She  will 
come  to  us  directly  we  return  from  the  country',  will  she  not  ?  And 
you,  cold  one  !  B." 

The  words  of  this  letter  were  perfectly  clear,  and  written  in 
Blanche's  neatest  hand  upon  her  scented  paper ;  and  yet  the  meaning 
of  the  composition  not  a  little  puzzled  Pen.  Did  Blanche  mean  to 
accept  or  to  refuse  his  pohte  offer  ?  Her  phrases  either  meant  that 
Pen  did  not  love  her,  and  she  declined  him,  or  that  she  took  him,  and 
sacrificed  herself  to  him,  cold  as  he  was.  He  laughed  sardonically 
over  the  letter,  and  over  the  transaction  which  occasioned  it.  He 
laughed  to  think  how  Fortune  had  jilted  him,  and  how  he  deserved 
his  slippery  fortune.  He  turned  over  and  over  the  musky  gilt-edged 
riddle.  It  amused  his  humour:  he  enjoyed  it  as  if  it  had  been  a 
funny  stor)'. 

He  was  thus  seated,  twiddling  the  queer  manuscript  in  his  hand, 
joking  grimly  to  himself,  when  his  ser\-ant  came  in  with  a  card  from  a 
gentleman,  who  wished  to  speak  to  him  very  particularly.  And  if  Pen 
had  gone  out  into  the  passage,  he  would  have  seen  sucking  his  stick, 
rolling  his  eyes,  and  showing  great  marks  of  anxiety,  his  old  acquaint- 
ance, Mr.  Samuel  Huxter. 

"  Mr.  Huxter  on  particular  business  I  Pray,  beg  Mr.  Huxter  to 
come  in,"  said  Pen,  amused  rather;  and  not  the  less  so  when  poor 
Sam  appeared  before  him. 

"  Pray  take  a  chair,  Mr.  Huxter,"'  said  Pen,  in  his  most  superb 
manner.     "  In  what  way  can  1  be  of  sen-ice  to  you  ? " 

"  I  had  rather  not  speak  before  the  flunk — before  the  man,  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis :  "  on  which  Mr.  Arthur's  attendant  quitted  the  room. 

"  I'm  in  a  fix,"  said  Mr.  Huxter.  gloomily. 

**  Indeed." 

"  She  sent  me  to  you,"  continued  the  young  surgeon. 

"  What !  Fanny  ?  Is  she  well  ?  I  was  coming  to  see  her,  but  I 
have  had  a  great  deal  of  business  since  my  return  to  London." 

"  I  heard  of  you  through  my  governor  and  Jack  Hobncll,"  broke 
in  Huxter.  "  I  wish  you  joy,  Mr.  Pendennis,  both  of  the  borough  and 
the  lady,  sir.  Fanny  wishes  you  joy,  too,"  he  added,  with  something 
of  a  blush. 

•'  There's  many  a  slip  between  the  cup  and  the  lip !  Who  knows 
what  may  happen,  Mr.  Huxter,  or  who  will  sit  in  Parliament  for 
Clavering  next  session?" 

"  You  can  do  anything  with  my  governor."  continued  Mr.  Huxter. 


PENDENNIS.  70S 

"  You  got  him  Clavering  Park.  The  old  boy  was  very  much  pleased, 
sir,  at  your  calhng  him  in.  Hobnell  wrote  me  so.  Do  you  think  you 
could  speak  to  the  governor  for  me,  Mr.  Pendennis  ?" 

"  And  tell  him  what  ? " 

"  I've  gone  and  done  it,  sir,"  said  Huxter,  with  a  particular  look. 

"  You — you  don't  mean  to  say  you  have— you  have  done  any  wrong 
to  that  dear  little  creature,  sir?"  said  Pen,  starting  up  in  a  great  fury. 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Huxter,  with  a  hang-dog  look :  "  but  I've  mar- 
ried her.  And  I  know  there  will  be  an  awful  shindy  at  home.  It  was 
agreed  that  I  should  be  taken  into  partnership  when  I  had  passed  the 
College,  and  it  was  to  have  been  Huxter  &  Son.  But  I  luou/d  have  it, 
confound  it.  It's  all  over  now,  and  the  old  boy's  wrote  me  that  he's 
coming  up  to  town  for  drugs :  he  will  be  here  to-morrow,  and  then  it 
must  all  come  out." 

"  And  when  did  this  event  happen  ? "  asked  Pen,  not  over  well 
pleased,  most  likely,  that  a  person  who  had  once  attracted  some 
portion  of  his  royal  good  graces  should  have  transferred  her  allegiance, 
and  consoled  herself  for  his  loss. 

"  Last  Thursday  was  five  weeks — it  was  two  days  after  Miss  Amory 
came  to  Shepherd's  Inn,"  Huxter  answered. 

Pen  remembered  that  Blanche  had  written  and  mentioned  her  visit. 
"  I  was  called  in,"  Huxter  said.  "  I  was  in  the  inn  looking  after  old 
Cos's  leg;  and  about  something  else  too,  very  likely:'  and  I  met 
Strong,  who  told  me  there  was  a  woman  taken  ill  in  chambers,  and 
went  up  to  give  her  my  professional  sen'ices.  It  was  the  old  lady  who 
attends  Miss  Amory — her  housekeeper,  or  some  such  thing.  She  was 
taken  with  strong  hysterics  :  I  found  her  kicking  and  scratching  like  a 
good  one — in  Strong's  chamber,  along  with  him  and  Colonel  Altamont, 
and  Miss  Amory  crying  and  as  pale  as  a  sheet ;  and  Altamont  fuming 
about — a  regular  kick-up.  They  were  two  hours  in  the  chambers ;  and 
the  old  woman  went  whooping  off  in  a  cab.  She  was  much  worse 
than  the  young  one.  I  called  in  Grosvenor  Place  next  day  to  see 
if  I  could  be  of  any  service,  but  they  were  gone  without  so  much  as 
thanking  me :  and  the  day  after  I  had  business  of  my  own  to  attend 
to — a  bad  business  too,"  said  Mr.  Huxter,  gloomily.  "  But  it's  done, 
and  can't  be  undone ;  and  we  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

She  has  known  the  story  for  a  month,  thought  Pen,  with  a  sharp 
pang  of  grief,  and  a  gloomy  sympathy — this  accounts  for  her  letter  of 
to-day.  She  will  not  imphcate  her  father,  or  divulge  his  secret;  she 
wishes  to  let  me  off  from  the  marriage — and  finds  a  pretext — the 
generous  girl ! 

"Do  you  know  who  Altamont  is,  sir.?"  asked  Huxter,  after  the 
pause  during  which  Pen  had  been  thinking  of  his  own  affairs.  "  Fanny 
and  I  have  talked  him  over,  and  we  can't  help  fancying  that  it's  Mrs. 

45 


7o6  PENDENNIS. 

Lightfoot's  first  husband  come  to  life  again,  and  she  who  has  just 
married  a  second.  Perhaps  Lightfoot  won't  be  very  sorry  for  it," 
sighed  Huxter,  looking  savagely  at  Arthur,  for  the  demon  of  jealousy 
was  still  in  possession  of  his  soul ;  and  now,  and  more  than  ever  since 
his  marriage,  the  poor  fellow  fancied  that  Fanny's  heart  belonged  to 
his  rival. 

"  Let  us  talk  about  your  affairs,"  said  Pen.  "  Show  me  how  I  can 
be  of  any  service  to  you,  Huxter.  Let  me  congratulate  you  on  your 
marriage.  I  am  thankful  that  Fanny,  who  is  so  good,  so  fascinating, 
so  kind  a  creature,  has  found  an  honest  man,  and  a  gentleman  who 
will  make  her  happy.     Show  me  what  I  can  do  to  help  you." 

"  She  thinks  you  can,  sir,"  said  Huxter,  accepting  Pen's  proffered 
hand,  "and  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  I'm  sure;  and  that  you 
might  talk  over  my  father,  and  break  the  business  to  him,  and  my 
mother,  who  always  has  her  back  up  about  being  a  clergyman's 
daughter.  Fanny  ain't  of  a  good  family,  I  know,  and  not  up  to  us 
in  breeding  and  that — but  she's  a  Huxter  now." 

"  The  wife  takes  the  husband's  rank,  of  course,"  said  Pen. 

"  And  with  a  little  practice  in  society,"  continued  Huxter,  imbibing 
his  stick,  "  she'll  be  as  good  as  any  girl  in  Clavering.  You  should  hear 
her  sing  and  play  on  the  piano.  Did  you  ever .?  Old  Bows  taught  her. 
And  she'll  do  on  the  stage,  if  the  governor  was  to  throw  me  over ;  but 
I'd  rather  not  have  her  there.  She  can't  help  being  a  coquette,  Mr . 
Pendennis,  she  can't  help  it.  Dammy,  sir!  I'll  be  bound  to  say,  that 
two  or  three  of  the  Bartholomew  chaps,  that  I've  brought  into  my 
place,  are  sitting  with  her  now:  even  Jack  Linton,  that  I  took  down 
as  my  best  man,  is  as  bad  as  the  rest,  and  she  will  go  on  singing  and 
making  eyes  at  him.  It's  what  Bows  says,  if  there  were  twenty  men 
in  a  room,  and  one  not  taking  notice  of  her,  she  wouldn't  be  satisfied 
until  the  twentieth  was  at  her  elbow." 

"  You  should  have  her  mother  with  her,"  said  Pen,  laughing. 

"  She  must  keep  the  lodge.  She  can't  see  so  much  of  her  family 
as  she  used.  I  can't,  you  know,  sir,  go  on  with  that  lot.  Consider  my 
rank  in  life,"  said  Huxter,  putting  a  very  dirt>-  hand  up  to  his  chin. 

"Aufaii,"sa:id  Mr.  Pen,  who  was  infinitely  amused,  and  concerning 
whom  mutato  nomine  (and  of  course  concerning  nobody  else  in  the 
world)  the  fable  might  have  been  narrated. 

As  the  two  gentlemen  were  in  the  midst  of  this  colloquy,  another 
knock  came  to  Pen's  door,  and  his  scrA-ant  presently  announced 
Mr.  Bows.  The  old  man  followed  slowly,  his  pale  face  blushing, 
and  his  hand  trembling  somewhat  as  he  took  Pen's.  He  coughed! 
and  wiped  his  face  in  his  checked  cotton  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
sate  down  with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  the  sun  shining  on  his  bald 
head.     Pen  looked  at  the  homely  figure  with  no  small  sjnnpathv  and 


PENDENNIS.  707 

kindness.  "  This  man,  too,  has  had  his  griefs  and  his  wounds,"  Arthur 
thought.  "  This  man,  too,  has  brought  his  genius  and  his  heart,  and 
laid  them  at  a  woman's  feet ;  where  she  spurned  them.  The  chance  of 
hfe  has  gone  against  him,  and  the  prize  is  with  that  creature  yonder." 
Fanny's  bridegroom,  thus  mutely  apostrophised,  had  winked  mean- 
while with  one  eye  at  old  Bows,  and  was  driving  holes  in  the  floor  with 
the  cane  which  he  loved. 

"  So  we  have  lost,  Mr.  Bows,  and  here  is  the  lucky  winner,"  Pen 
said,  looking  hard  at  the  old  man. 

"  Here  is  the  lucky  winner,  sir,  as  you  say." 

"  I  suppose  you  have  come  from  my  place?"  asked  Huxter,  who, 
having  winked  at  Bows  with  one  eye,  now  favoured  Pen  with  a  wink 
of  the  other — a  wink  which  seemed  to  say,  "  Infatuated  old  boy — you 
understand — over  head  and  ears  in  love  with  her — poor  old  fool ! " 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  there  ever  since  you  went  away.  It  was  Mrs. 
Sam  who  sent  me  after  you  :  who  said,  that  she  thought  you  might  be 
doing  something  stupid — something  like  yourself,  Huxter." 

"  There's  as  big  fools  as  I  am,"  growled  the  young  surgeon. 

"  A  few,  p'raps,"  said  the  old  man ;  "  not  many,  let  us  trust.  Yes, 
she  sent  me  after  you  for  fear  you  should  offend  Mr.  Pendennis ;  and  I 
daresay  because  she  thought  you  wouldn't  give  her  message  to  him, 
and  beg  him  to  go  and  see  her ;  and  she  knew  /would  take  her  errand. 
Did  he  tell  you  that,  sir  ? " 

Huxter  blushed  scarlet,  and  covered  his  confusion  with  an  impre- 
cation. Pen  laughed !  the  scene  suited  his  bitter  humour  more  and  more. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  Mr.  Huxter  was  going  to  tell  me,"  Arthur  said, 
"  and  very  much  flattered  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  to  pay  my  respects  to 
his  wife." 

"  It's  in  Charterhouse  Lane,  over  the  baker's,  on  the  right-hand  side 
as  you  go  from  St.  John's  Street,"  continued  Bows,  without  any  pity. 
"  You  know  Smithfield,  Mr.  Pendennis  1  St.  John's  Street  leads  into 
Smithfield.  Doctor  Johnson  has  been  down  the  street  many  a  time 
with  ragged  shoes,  and  a  bundle  of  penny-a-lining  for  the  '  Gent's 
Magazine.'  You  literary  gents  are  better  off  now — eh  ?  You  ride  in 
your  cabs,  and  wear  yellow  kid  gloves  now." 

"  I  have  known  so  many  brave  and  good  men  fail,  and  so  many 
quacks  and  impostors  succeed,  that  you  mistake  me  if  you  think  I  am 
puffed  up  by  my  own  personal  good-luck,  old  friend,"  Arthur  said, 
sadly.  "  Do  you  think  the  prizes  of  life  are  carried  by  the  most 
deserving  ?  and  set  up  that  mean  test  of  prosperity  for  merit  ?  You 
must  feel  that  you  are  as  good  as  I.  I  have  never  questioned  it.  It 
is  you  that  are  peevish  against  the  freaks  of  fortune,  and  grudge  the 
good  luck  that  befalls  others.  It's  not  the  first  time  you  have  unjustly 
accused  me.  Bows." 


7o8  PENDENNIS. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  not  far  wrong,  sir,"  said  the  old  fellow,  wiping  his 
bald  forehead.  "  I  am  thinking  about  myself  and  grumbling ;  most 
men  do  when  they  get  on  that  subject  Here's  the  fellow  that's  got  the 
prize  in  the  lottery;  here's  the  fortunate  youth." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  are  driving  at,"'  Huxter  said,  who  had ' 
been  much  puzzled  as  the  above  remarks  passed  between  his  two 
companions. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  Bows,  drily.  "  Mrs.  H.  sent  me  here  to  look 
after  you,  and  to  see  that  you  brought  that  little  message  to  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis,  which  you  didn't,  you  see,  and  so  she  was  right.  Women 
always  are;  they  have  always  a  reason  for  ever>-thing.  WTiy,  sir,"  he 
said,  turning  round  to  Pen  with  a  sneer,  "  she  had  a  reason  even  for 
giving  me  that  message.  I  was  sitting  with  her  after  you  left  us,  very 
quiet  and  comfortable;  I  was  talking  away,  and  she  was  mending  your 
shirts,  when  your  two  young  friends.  Jack  Linton  and  Bob  Blades, 
looked  in  from  Bartholomew's :  and  then  it  was  she  found  out  that  she 
had  this  message  to  send.  You  needn't  hurry  yourself,  she  don't  want 
you  back  again ;  they'll  stay  these  two  hours,  I  daresay." 

Huxter  arose  with  great  perturbation  at  this  news,  and  plunged  his 
stick  into  the  pocket  of  his  paletot,  and  seized  his  hat. 

"  You'll  come  and  see  us,  sir,  won't  you  ? "'  he  said  to  Pen.  "  You'll 
talk  over  the  governor,  won't  you,  sir,  if  I  can  get  out  of  this  place  and 
down  to  Clavering?" 

'•  You  will  promise  to  attend  me  gratis  if  ever  I  fall  ill  at  Fairoaks, 
will  you,  Huxter.?"  Pen  said,  good-naturedly.  "I  will  do  anything  I 
can  for  you.  I  will  come  and  see  Mrs.  Huxter  immediately,  and  we 
will  conspire  together  about  what  is  to  be  done." 

••  I  thought  that  would  send  him  out,  sir,"  Bows  said,  dropping  into 
his  chair  again  as  soon  as  the  young  surgeon  had  quitted  the  room. 
"And  it's  all  true,  sir — every  word  of  it.  She  wants  you  back  again, 
and  sends  her  husband  after  you.  She  cajoles  ever>body,  the  little 
devil.  She  tries  it  on  you,  on  me,  on  poor  Costigan,  on  the  young 
chaps  from  Bartholomew's.  She's  got  a  little  court  of  "em  already.  And 
if  there's  nobody  there,  she  practises  on  the  old  German  baker  in  the 
shop,  or  coaxes  the  black  sweeper  at  the  crossing." 

"  Is  she  fond  of  that  fellow.?"  asked  Pen. 

"  There  is  no  accounting  for  likes  and  dislikes,"  Bows  answered 
"Yes,  she  is  fond  of  him;  and  having  taken  the  thing  into  her  head, 
she  would  not  rest  until  she  married  him.  They  had  their  banns  pub- 
hshed  at  St.  Clement's,  and  nobody  heard  it  or  knew  any  just  cause  or 
impediment.  And  one  day  she  slips  out  of  the  porter's  lodge  and  has 
the  business  done,  and  goes  off  to  Gravesend  with  Lothario ;  and  leaves 
a  note  for  me  to  go  and  explain  all  things  to  her  ma.  Bless  you  !  the 
old  woman  knew  it  as  well  as  I  did,  though  she  pretended  ignorance. 


PENDENNrS.  709 

And  so  she  goes,  and  I'm  alone  again.  I  miss  her,  sir,  tripping  along 
that  court,  and  coming  for  her  singing  lesson ;  and  I've  no  heart  to 
look  into  the  porter's  lodge  now,  which  looks  very  empty  without  her, 
the  little  flirting  thing.  And  I  go  and  sit  and  dangle  about  her  lodg- 
ings, like  an  old  fool.  She  makes  'em  very  trim  and  nice,  though  ;  gets 
up  all  Huxter's  shirts  and  clothes :  cooks  his  little  dinner,  and  sings  at 
her  business  like  a  little  lark.  What's  the  use  of  being  angry  ?  1  lent 
'em  three  pound  to  go  on  with  :  for  they  haven't  got  a  shilling  till  the 
reconciliation,  and  pa  comes  down." 

When  Bows  had  taken  his  leave.  Pen  carried  his  letter  from 
Blanche,  and  the  news  which  he  had  just  received,  to  his  usual 
adviser,  Laura.  It  was  wonderful  upon  how  many  points  Mr.  Arthur, 
who  generally  followed  his  own  opinion,  now  wanted  another  person's 
counsel.  He  could  hardly  so  much  as  choose  a  waistcoat  without 
referring  to  Miss  Bell :  if  he  wanted  to  buy  a  horse,  he  must  have 
Miss  Bell's  opinion;  all  which  marks  of  deference  tended  greatly  to 
the  amusement  of  the  shrewd  old  lady  with  whom  Miss  Bell  lived,  and 
whose  plans  regarding  her  prott'gee  we  have  indicated. 

Arthur  produced  Blanche's  letter  then  to  Laura,  and  asked  her  to 
interpret  it.  Laura  was  very  much  agitated,  and  puzzled  by  the  con- 
tents of  the  note. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  she  said,  "  as  if  Blanche  is  acting  very  artfully." 

"  And  wishes  so  to  place  matters  that  she  may  take  me  or  leave 
me  ?     Is  it  not  so?" 

"  It  is,  I  am  afraid,  a  kind  of  duplicity  which  does  not  augur  well 
for  your  future  happiness ;  and  is  a  bad  reply  to  your  own  candour 
and  honesty,  Arthur.  Do  you  know  I  think,  I  think — I  scarcely  like 
to  say  what  I  think,"  said  Laura,  with  a  deep  blush ;  but  of  course  the 
blushing  young  lady  yielded  to  her  cousin's  persuasions,  and  expressed 
what  her  thoughts  were.  "  It  looks  to  me,  Arthur,  as  if  there  might 
be — there  might  be  somebody  else,"  said  Laura,  with  a  repetition  of 
the  blush. 

"  And  if  there  is,"  broke  in  Arthur,  "  and  if  I  am  free  once  again, 
will  the  best  and  dearest  of  all  women " 

"  You  are  not  free,  dear  brother,"  Laura  said  calmly.  "  You  belong 
to  another;  of  whom  I  own  it  grieves  me  to  think  ill.  But  I  can't  do 
otherwise.  It  is  very  odd  that  in  this  letter  she  does  not  urge  you  to 
tell  her  the  reason  why  you  have  broken  arrangements  which  would 
have  been  so  advantageous  to  you;  and  avoids  speaking  on  the 
subject.  She  somehow  seems  to  write  as  if  she  knows  her  father's 
secret." 

Pen  said,  "  Yes,  she  must  know  it : "  and  told  the  story,  which  he 
had  just  heard  from  Huxter,  of  the  interview  at  Shepherd's  Inn. 

"  It  was  not  so  that  she  described  the  meeting,"  said  Laura;  and 


7IO  PENDENNIS. 

going  to  her  desk,  produced  from  it  that  letter  of  Blanche's  which 
mentioned  her  visit  to  Shepherd's  Inn.  "Another  disappointment 
— only  the  Chevalier  Strong  and  a  friend  of  his  in  the  room."  This 
was  all  that  Blanche  had  said.  "  But  she  was  bound  to  keep  her 
father's  secret,  Pen,"  Laura  added.  "  And  yet,  and  yet — it  is  very 
puzzling." 

The  puzzle  was  this,  that  for  three  weeks  after  this  eventful  dis- 
covery Blanche  had  been  only  too  eager  about  her  dearest  Arthur ; 
was  urging,  as  strongly  as  so  much  modesty  could  urge,  the  completion 
of  the  happy  arrangements  which  were  to  make  her  Arthur's  for  ever ; 
and  now  it  seemed  as  if  something  had  interfered  to  mar  these  happy 
arrangements — as  if  Arthur  poor  was  not  quite  so  agreeable  to  Blanche 
as  Arthur  rich  and  a  member  of  Parliament — as  if  there  was  some 
myster)'.     At  last  she  said — 

"  Tunbridge  Wells  is  not  very  far  off,  is  it,  Arthur.'  Hadn't  you 
better  go  and  see  her .''" 

They  had  been  in  town  a  week,  and  neither  had  thought  of  that 
simple  plan  before ! 


PENDENNIS.  711 


CHAPTER   LXXIII. 

SHOWS   HOW   ARTHUR   HAD   BETTER   HAVE   TAKEN   A   RETURN- 
TICKET. 

THE  train  carried  Arthur  only  too  quickly  to  Tunbridge,  though  he 
had  time  to  review  all  the  circumstances  of  his  life  as  he  made 
the  brief  journey;  and  to  acknowledge  to  what  sad  conclusions  his 
selfishness  and  waywardness  had  led  him.  "  Here  is  the  end  of  hopes 
and  aspirations,"  thought  he,  "  of  romance  and  ambitions !  Where  I 
yield  or  where  I  am  obstinate,  I  am  alike  unfortunate ;  my  mother 
implores  me,  and  I  refuse  an  angel !  Say  I  had  taken  her;  forced  on 
me  as  she  was,  Laura  would  never  have  been  an  angel  to  me.  I  could 
not  have  given  her  my  heart  at  another's  instigation ;  I  could  never 
have  known  her  as  she  is,  had  I  been  obliged  to  ask  another  to  inter- 
pret her  qualities  and  point  out  her  virtues.  I  yield  to  my  uncle's 
solicitations,  and  accept  on  his  guarantee  Blanche,  and  a  seat  in 
Parliament,  and  wealth,  and  ambition  and  a  career !  and  see ! — 
fortune  comes  and  leaves  me  the  wife  without  the  dowry,  which  I 
had  taken  in  compensation  of  a  heart.  Why  was  I  not  more  honest, 
or  am  I  not  less  so  ?  It  would  have  cost  my  poor  old  uncle  no  pangs 
to  accept  Blanche's  fortune,  whencesoever  it  came;  he  can't  even 
understand,  he  is  bitterly  indignant,  heart-stricken  almost,  at  the 
scruples  which  actuate  me  in  refusing  it.  I  dissatisfy  everybody. 
A  maimed,  weak,  imperfect  wretch,  it  seems  as  if  I  am  unequal  to 
any  fortune.  I  neither  make  myself  nor  any  one  connected  with  me 
happy.  What  prospect  is  there  for  this  poor  little  frivolous  girl,  who 
is  to  take  my  obscure  name  and  share  my  fortune .?  I  have  not  even 
ambition  to  excite  me,  or  self-esteem  enough  to  console  myself,  much 
more  her,  for  my  failure.  If  I  were  to  write  a  book  that  should  go 
through  twenty  editions,  why,  I  should  be  the  very  first  to  sneer  at  my 
reputation.  Say  I  could  succeed  at  the  Bar,  and  achieve  a  fortune  by 
bullying  witnesses  and  twisting  evidence ;  is  that  a  fame  which  would 
satisfy  my  longings,  or  a  calling  in  which  my  life  would  be  well  spent  ? 
How  I  wish  I  could  be  that  priest  opposite,  who  never  has  lifted  his 
eyes  from  his  breviary,  except  when  we  were  in  Reigate  tunnel,  when 
he  could  not  see ;  or  that  old  gentleman  next  him,  who  scowls  at  him 
with  eyes  of  hatred  over  his  newspaper.     The  priest  shuts  his  eyes  to 


-12  PENDENNIS. 

the  world,  but  has  his  thoughts  on  the  book,  which  is  his  directory  to 
the  world  to  come.  His  neighbour  hates  him  as  a  monster,  tyrant, 
persecutor,  and  fancies  burning  martyrs,  and  that  pale  countenance 
looking  on,  and  lighted  up  by  the  flame.  These  have  no  doubts; 
these  march  on  trustfully,  bearing  their  load  of  logic." 

"Would  you  like  to  look  at  the  paper,  sir?"  here  interposed  the 
stout  gentleman  (it  had  a  flaming  article  against  the  order  of  the  black- 
coated  gentleman  who  was  travelling  with  them  in  the  carriage),  and 
Pen  thanked  him  and  took  it,  and  pursued  his  reverie,  without  reading 
two  sentences  of  the  journal. 

"  And  yet,  would  you  take  either  of  those  men's  creeds,  with  its 
consequences?"  he  thought.  "Ah  me!  you  must  bear  your  own 
burthen,  fashion  your  own  faith,  think  your  own  thoughts,  and  pray 
your  o^vn  prayer.  To  what  mortal  ear  could  I  tell  all,  if  I  had  a  mind  ? 
or  who  could  understand  all  ?  Who  can  tell  another's  shortcomings, 
lost  opportunities,  weigh  the  passions  which  overpower,  the  defects 
whish  incapacitate  reason  ? — what  extent  of  truth  and  right  his  neigh- 
bour's mind  is  organised  to  perceive  and  to  do  ? — what  invisible  and 
forgotten  accident,  terror  of  youth,  chance  or  mischance  of  fortune, 
may  have  altered  the  current  of  life  ?  A  grain  of  sand  may  alter  it, 
as  the  flinging  of  a  pebble  may  end  it.  Who  can  weigh  circumstances, 
passions,  temptations,  that  go  to  our  good  and  evil  account,  save  One, 
before  whose  awful  wisdom  we  kneel,  and  at  whose  mercy  we  ask 
absolution  ?  Here  it  ends,"  thought  Pen ;  "  this  day  or  to-morrow  will 
wind  up  the  account  of  my  youth ;  a  weary  retrospect,  alas !  a  sad 
histor}',  with  many  a  page  I  would  fain  not  look  back  on !  But  who 
has  not  been  tired  or  fallen,  and  who  has  escaped  without  scars  from 
that  struggle?"  And  his  head  fell  on  his  breast,  and  the  young  man's 
heart  prostrated  itself  humbly  and  sadly  before  that  Throne  where  sits 
wisdom,  and  love,  and  pity  for  all,  and  made  its  confession.  "  \Miat 
matters  about  fame  or  poverty  ? "'  he  thought.  "  If  I  marry  this 
woman  I  have  chosen,  may  I  have  strength  and  will  to  be  true  to 
her,  and  to  make  her  happy  I  If  I  have  children,  pray  God  teach  me 
to  speak  and  to  do  the  truth  among  them,  and  to  leave  them  an  honest 
name.  There  are  no  splendours  for  my  marriage.  Does  my  life 
deserve  any  ?  I  begin  a  new  phase  of  it ;  a  better  than  the  last,  may 
it  be,  I  pray  Heaven ! " 

The  train  stopped  at  Tunbridge  as  Pen  was  making  these  reflec- 
tions ;  and  he  handed  over  the  newspaper  to  his  neighbour,  of 
whom  he  took  leave,  while  the  foreign  clerg}-man  in  the  opposite 
corner  still  sate  with  his  eyes  on  his  book.  Pen  jumped  out  of  the 
carriage  then,  his  carpet-bag  in  hand,  and  briskly  determined  to  face 
his  fortune. 

A  fly  carried  him   rapidly   to   Lady  Clavering's   house   from  the 


PENDENNIS.  713 

station  ;  and,  as  he  was  transported  thither,  Arthur  composed  a  little 
speech,  which  he  intended  to  address  to  Blanche,  and  which  was 
really  as  virtuous,  honest,  and  well-minded  an  oration  as  any  man  of 
his  turn  of  mind,  and  under  his  circumstances,  could  have  uttered. 
The  purport  of  it  was — "  Blanche,  I  cannot  understand  from  your 
last  letter  what  your  meaning  is,  or  whether  my  fair  and  frank  pro- 
posal to  you  is  acceptable  or  no.  I  think  you  know  the  reason  which 
induces  me  to  forego  the  worldly  advantages  which  a  union  with  you 
offered,  and  which  I  could  not  accept  without,  as  I  fancy,  being 
dishonoured.  If  you  doubt  of  my  affection,  here  I  am  ready  to  prove 
it.  Let  Smirke  be  called  in,  and  let  us  be  married  out  of  hand  ;  and 
vWth  all  my  heart  I  purpose  to  keep  my  vow,  and  to  cherish  you 
through  life,  and  to  be  a  true  and  a  loving  husband  to  you." 

From  the  fly  Arthur  sprang  out  then  to  the  hall-door,  where  he 
was  met  by  a  domestic  whom  he  did  not  know.  The  man  seemed  to 
be  surprised  at  the  approach  of  the  gentleman  with  the  carpet-bag, 
which  he  made  no  attempt  to  take  from  Arthur's  hands.  "  Her  lady- 
ship's not  at  home,  sir,"  the  man  remarked. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Arthur  said.     "  Where  is  Lightfoot  ?" 

"  Lightfoot  is  gone,"  answered  the  man.  "  My  lady  is  out,  and 
my  orders  was " 

"  I  hear  Miss  Amory's  voice  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  Arthur. 
"  Take  the  bag  to  a  dressing-room,  if  you  please  ;  "  and,  passing  by 
the  porter,  he  walked  straight  towards  that  apartment,  from  which,  as 
the  door  opened,  a  warble  of  melodious  notes  issued. 

Our  little  Siren  was  at  her  piano,  singing  with  all  her  might  and 
fascinations.  Master  Clavering  was  asleep  on  the  sofa,  indifferent 
to  the  music  ;  but  near  Blanche  sat  a  gentleman  who  was  perfectly 
enraptured  with  her  strain,  which  was  of  a  passionate  and  melancholy 
nature. 

As  the  door  opened,  the  gentleman  started  up  with  a  Hullo  !  the 
music  stopped,  with  a  little  shriek  from  the  singer  ;  Frank  Clavering 
woke  up  from  the  sofa,  and  Arthur  came  forward  and  said,  "  What, 
Foker  !  how  do  you  do,  Foker?"  He  looked  at  the  piano,  and  there, 
by  Miss  Amory's  side,  was  just  such  another  purple-leather  box  as  he 
had  seen  in  Harry's  hand  three  days  before,  when  the  heir  of  Logwood 
was  coming  out  of  a  jeweller's  shop  in  Waterloo  Place.  It  was  opened, 
and  curled  round  the  white  satin  cushion  within  was,  oh,  such  a 
magnificent  serpentine  bracelet,  with  such  a  blazing  ruby  head  and 
diamond  tail. 

"How  de-do,  Pendennis?"  said  Foker.  Blanche  made  many 
motions  of  the  shoulders,  and  gave  signs  of  interest  and  agitation. 
And  she  put  her  handkerchief  over  the  bracelet,  and  then  she 
advanced,  with  a  hand  which  trembled  very  much,  to  greet  Pen. 


714  PENDENNIS. 

"How  is  dearest  Laura?"  she  said.  The  face  of  Foker  looking 
up  from  his  profound  mourning — that  face,  so  piteous  and  puzzled, 
was  one  which  the  reader's  imagination  must  depict  for  himself;  also 
that  of  Master  Frank  Clavering,  who,  looking  at  the  three  interesting 
individuals  with  an  expression  of  the  utmost  knowingness,  had  only 
time  to  ejaculate  the  words,  "  Here's  a  jolly  go ! "  and  to  disappear 
sniggering. 

Pen,  too,  had  restrained  himself  up  to  that  minute ;  but  looking 
still  at  Foker,  whose  ears  and  cheeks  tingled  with  blushes,  Arthur 
burst  out  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  so  wild  and  loud,  that  it  frightened 
Blanche  much  more  than  any  the  most  serious  exhibition. 

"  And  this  was  the  secret,  was  it  ?  Don't  blush  and  turn  away, 
Foker,  my  boy.  Why,  man,  you  are  a  pattern  of  fidelity.  Could  I 
stand  between  Blanche  and  such  constancy — could  I  stand  between 
Miss  Amory  and  fifteen  thousand  a  year .'' " 

"  It  is  not  that,  Mr.  Pendennis,"  Blanche  said,  with  great  dignity. 
"  It  is  not  money,  it  is  not  rank,  it  is  not  gold  that  moves  me ;  but  it 
is  constancy,  it  is  fidelity,  it  is  a  whole  trustful  loving  heart  offered  to 
me,  that  I  treasure — yes,  that  I  treasure ! "  And  she  made  for  her 
handkerchief,  but,  reflecting  what  was  underneath  it,  she  paused.  "  I 
do  not  disown,  I  do  not  disguise — my  life  is  above  disguise — to  him 
on  whom  it  is  bestowed,  my  heart  must  be  for  ever  bare — that  I  once 
thought  I  loved  you, — yes,  thought  I  was  beloved  by  you ! — I  own. 
How  I  clung  to  that  faith !  How  I  strove,  I  prayed,  I  longed  to 
believe  it !  But  your  conduct  always — your  own  words  so  cold,  so 
heartless,  so  unkind,  have  undeceived  me.  You  trifled  with  the  heart 
of  the  poor  maiden !  You  flung  me  back  with  scorn  the  troth  which 
I  had  plighted!     I  have  explained  all— all  to  Mr.  Foker." 

"  That  you  have,"  said  Foker,  with  devotion,  and  conviction  in  his 
looks. 

"  What !  all.?"  said  Pen,  with  a  meaning  look  at  Blanche.  "  It  is 
I  am  in  fault,  is  it  ?  Well,  well,  Blanche,  be  it  so.  I  won't  appeal 
against  your  sentence,  and  bear  it  in  silence.  I  came  down  here 
looking  to  very  different  things,  Heaven  knows,  and  with  a  heart  meet 
truly  and  kindly  disposed  towards  you.  I  hope  you  may  be  happy 
with  another,  as,  on  my  word,  it  was  my  wish  to  make  you  so ;  and  I 
hope  my  honest  old  friend  here  will  have  a  wife  worthy  of  his  loyalty, 
his  constancy,  and  affection.  Indeed  they  deserve  the  regard  of  any 
woman— even  Miss  Blanche  Amor)-.  Shake  hands,  Harr>-,  don't  look 
askance  at  me.  Has  anybody  told  you  that  I  was  a  false  and  heart- 
less character.?" 

"  I  think  you're  a "  Foker  was  beginning,  in  his  wrath,  when 

Blanche  interposed. 

"  Henry,  not  a  word !— I  pray  you  let  there  be  forgiveness  I" 


PENDENNIS.  715 

"  You're  an  angel,  by  Jove,  you're  an  angel ! "  said  Foker,  at  which 
Blanche  looked  seraphically  up  to  the  chandelier. 

In  spite  of  what  has  passed,  for  the  sake  of  what  has  passed,  I 
must  always  regard  Arthur  as  a  brother,"  the  seraph  continued ;  we 
have  known  each  other  years,  we  have  trodden  the  same  fields,  and 
plucked  the  same  flowers  together.  Arthur !  Henry !  I  beseech  you 
to  take  hands  and  to  be  friends  !  Forgive  you ! — /  forgive  you,  Arthur, 
with  my  heart  I  do.     Should  I  not  do  so  for  making  me  so  happy  ?  " 

"  There  is  only  one  person  of  us  three  whom  I  pity,  Blanche," 
Arthur  said,  gravely ;  "  and  I  say  to  you  again,  that  I  hope  you  will 
make  this  good  fellow,  this  honest  and  loyal  creature,  happy." 

"Happy!  O  Heavens!"  said  Harry.  He  could  not  speak.  His 
happiness  gushed  out  at  his  eyes.  "  She  don't  know — she  can't  know 
how  fond  I  am  of  her,  and — and  who  am  I  ?  a  poor  little  beggar,  and 
she  takes  me  up  and  says  she'll  try  and  1 — 1 — love  me.  I  ain't  worthy 
of  so  much  happiness.  Give  us  your  hand,  old  boy,  since  she  forgives 
you  after  your  heartless  conduct,  and  says  she  loves  you.  I'll  make 
you  welcome.  I  tell  you  I'll  love  everybody  who  loves  her.  By  —  if 
she  tells  me  to  kiss  the  ground  I'll  kiss  it.  Tell  me  to  kiss  the  ground ! 
I  say,  tell  me.     I  love  you  so.     You  see  I  love  you  so." 

Blanche  looked  up  seraphically  again.  Her  gentle  bosom  heaved. 
She  held  out  one  hand  as  if  to  bless  Harry,  and  then  royally  permitted 
him  to  kiss  it.  She  took  up  the  pocket-handkerchief  and  hid  her  own 
eyes,  as  the  other  fair  hand  was  abandoned  to  poor  Harry's  tearful 
embrace. 

"  I  swear  that  is  a  villain  who  deceives  such  a  loving  creature  as 
that,"  said  Pen. 

Blanche  laid  down  the  handkerchief,  and  put  hand  No.  2  softly  on 
Poker's  head,  which  was  bent  down  kissing  and  weeping  over  hand 
No.  I.  "  Foolish  boy,"  she  said,  "  it  shall  be  loved  as  it  deserves : 
who  could  help  loving  such  a  silly  creature  ? " 

And  at  this  moment  Frank  Clavering  broke  in  upon  the  senti- 
mental trio. 

"  I  say,  Pendennis,"  he  said. 

"Well,  Frank!" 

"  The  man  wants  to  be  paid,  and  go  back.     He's  had  some  beer." 

"  I'll  go  back  with  him,"  cried  Pen.  "  Good-by,  Blanche.  God 
bless  you,  Foker,  old  friend.  You  know  neither  of  you  want  me  here." 
He  longed  to  be  off  that  instant. 

"  Stay — I  must  say  one  word  to  you.  One  word  in  private,  if  you 
please,"  Blanche  said.  "You  can  trust  us  together,  can't  you, — 
Henry?"  The  tone  in  which  the  word  Henry  was  spoken,  and  the 
appeal,  ravished  Foker  with  delight.  "  Trust  you  ! "  said  he,  "  Oh 
who  wouldn't  trust  you  !     Come  along,  Franky,  my  boy." 


y,6  PENDENNIS. 

"  Let's  have  a  cigar,"  said  Frank,  as  they  went  into  the  hall. 
"  She  don't  like  it,''  said  Foker,  gently. 

"  Law  bless  you — she  don't  mind.  Pendennis  used  to  smoke 
regular,"  said  the  candid  youth. 

"  It  was  but  a  short  word  I  had  to  say,"  said  Blanche  to  Pen,  with 
great  calm,  when  they  were  alone.  "  You  never  loved  me,  Mr.  Pen- 
dennis." 

"  I  told  you  how  much,"  said  Arthur.     "  I  never  deceived  you." 

"  I  suppose  you  will  go  back  and  marry  Laura,"  continued  Blanche. 

"  Was  that  what  you  had  to  say  ?"  said  Pen. 

"  You  are  going  to  her  this  very  night,  I  am  sure  of  it.  There  is 
no  denying  it.     You  never  cared  for  mc." 

''  Etvous?" 

"  Et  moi,  (fest  different.  I  have  been  spoilt  early.  I  cannot  live 
out  of  the  world,  out  of  excitement.  I  could  have  done  so,  but  it  is 
too  late.  If  I  cannot  have  emotions,  I  must  have  the  world.  You 
would  offer  me  neither  one  nor  the  other.  You  are  blase'  in  ever)'- 
thing,  even  in  ambition.  You  had  a  career  before  you,  and  you 
would  not  take  it.  You  give  it  up! — for  what? — for  a  betise,  for  an 
absurd  scruple.  Why  would  you  not  have  that  seat,  and  be  such  a 
puritain  ?  Why  should  you  refuse  what  is  mine  by  right — by  right, 
entendez-vous  ?  " 

"  You  know  all  then  ? "  said  Pen. 

"  Only  within  a  month.  But  I  have  suspected  ever  since  Bay- 
mouth — nHmporie  since  when.  It  is  not  too  late.  He  is  as  if  he  had 
never  been  ;  and  there  is  a  position  in  the  world  before  you  yet.  Why 
not  sit  in  Parliament,  exert  your  talent,  and  give  a  place  in  the  world 
to  yourself,  to  your  wife  ?  I  take  celui-la.  Jl  est  bon.  II  est  riche. 
11  est — zwus  le  contiaissez  autant  que  moi,  enfin.  Think  you  that  I 
would  not  prefer  un  homme  qui  /era  parler  de  moi?  If  the  secret 
appears,  I  am  rich  a  millions.  How  does  it  affect  me  ?  It  is  not  my 
fault.     It  will  never  appear," 

"  You  will  tell  Harry  everything,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Je  comprends.  Vous  j-efusez,"  said  Blanche,  savagely.  "  I  will 
tell  Harry  at  my  own  time,  when  we  are  married.  You  will  not  betray 
me,  will  you  ?  You,  having  a  defenceless  girl's  secret,  will  not  turn 
upon  her  and  use  it  ?  S'il  me  plait  d£  le  cachet;  vion  secret;  pourquoi 
le  donnerai-je  ?  Je  Vaimc,  ?non  pauvre  pere,  z'oyes-vous  f  I  would 
rather  live  with  that  man  than  with  you  fades  intriguers  of  the  world. 
I  must  have  emotions—//  tn'en  donne.  II  tn^crit—il  /crit  tres-bien, 
voyez-vous—comme  un  pirate— comme  un  Bohemien  —  comme  un 
homme.  But  for  this  I  would  have  said  to  my  mother— J/j  mere ! 
quittons  ce  Idche  mart,  cette  lache  societt'—retournons  a  men  pere:' 


PENDENNIS.  7t7 

"  The  pirate  would  have  wearied  you  lilce  the  rest,"  said  Pen. 

" Eh  !  II  me  faut  des  emotions"  said  Blanche.  Pen  had  never 
seen  her  or  known  so  much  about  her  in  all  the  years  of  their  inti- 
macy as  he  saw  and  knew  now  ;  though  he  saw  more  than  existed 
in  reality.  For  this  young  lady  was  not  able  to  carry  out  any  emotion 
to  the  full  ;  but  had  a  sham  enthusiasm,  a  sham  hatred,  a  sham 
love,  a  sham  taste,  a  sham  grief,  each  of  which  flared  and  shone  very 
vehemently  for  an  instant,  but  subsided  and  gave  place  to  the  next 
sham  emotion. 


7i8  PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

A   CHAPTER   OF  MATCH-MAKING. 

UPON  the  platform  at  Tunbridge,  Pen  fumed  and  fretted  until  the 
arrival  of  the  evening  train  to  London,  a  full  half  hour, — six 
hours  it  seemed  to  him  ;  but  even  this  immense  interval  was  passed, 
the  train  arrived,  the  train  sped  on,  the  London  lights  came  in  view — 
a  gentleman  who  forgot  his  carpet-bag  in  the  train  rushed  at  a  cab, 
and  said  to  the  man,  "  Drive  as  hard  as  you  can  go  to  Jermyn  Street." 
The  cabman,  although  a  Hansom  cabman,  said  "  Thank  you  "  for  the 
gratuity  which  was  put  into  his  hand,  and  Pen  ran  up  the  stairs  of  the 
hotel  to  Lady  Rockminster's  apartments.  Laura  was  alone  in  the 
drawing-room,  reading,  with  a  pale  face,  by  the  lamp.  The  pale  face 
looked  up  when  Pen  opened  the  door.  May  we  follow  him  ?  The 
great  moments  of  life  are  but  moments  like  the  others.  Your  doom 
is  spoken  in  a  word  or  two.  A  single  look  from  the  eyes  ;  a  mere 
pressure  of  the  hand,  may  decide  it ;  or  of  the  lips,  though  they  cannot 
speak. 

When  Lady  Rockminster,  who  has  had  her  after-dinner  nap,  gets 
up  and  goes  into  her  sitting-room,  we  may  enter  with  her  ladyship. 

"  Upon  my  word,  young  people  ! "'  are  the  first  words  she  says, 
and  her  attendant  makes  wondering  eyes  over  her  shoulder.  And 
well  may  she  say  so ;  and  well  may  the  attendant  cast  wondering 
eyes  ;  for  the  young  people  are  in  an  attitude  ;  and  Pen  in  such  a 
position  as  every  young  lady  who  reads  this  has  heard  tell  of,  or  has 
seen,  or  hopes,  or  at  any  rate  deserves  to  see. 

In  a  word,  directly  he  entered  the  room,  Pen  went  up  to  Laura  of 
the  pale  face,  who  had  not  time  even  to  say,  What,  back  so  soon  ?  and 
seizing  her  outstretched  and  trembling  hand  just  as  she  was  rising 
from  her  chair,  fell  down  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  said  quickly, 
"  I  have  seen  her.  She  has  engaged  herself  to  Harr>-  Fokcr— and — 
and  NOW,  Laura  ? " 

The  hand  gives  a  pressure — the  eyes  beam  a  reply — the  quivering 
lips  answer,  though  speechless.  Pen's  head  sinks  down  in  the  girl's 
lap,  as  she  sobs  out,  '•  Come  and  bless  us,  dear  mother  !  "  and  arms  as 
tender  as  Helen's  once  more  enfold  him. 


PENDENNIS.  719 

In  this  juncture  it  is  that  Lady  Rockminster  comes  in  and  says, 
"  Upon  my  word,  young  people  !  Beck  !  leave  the  room.  What  do 
you  want  poking  your  nose  in  here  ?  " 

Pen  starts  up  with  looks  of  triumph,  still  holding  Laura's  hand. 
"  She  is  consoling  me  for  my  misfortune,  ma'am,"  he  says. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  kissing  her  hand  ?  I  don't  know  what 
you  will  be  next  doing." 

Pen  kissed  her  ladyship's.  "  /  have  been  to  Tunbridge,"  he  says, 
"  and  seen  Miss  Amory  ;  and  find  on  my  arrival  that — that  a  villain 
has  transplanted  me  in  her  affections,"  he  says  with  a  tragedy  air. 

"  Is  that  all?  Is  that  what  you  were  whimpering  on  your  knees 
about  ? "  says  the  old  lady,  growing  angry.  "  You  might  have  kept 
the  news  till  to-morrow." 

"  Yes — another  has  superseded  me,"  goes  on  Pen  ;  "  but  why  call 
him  villain  ?  He  is  brave,  he  is  constant,  he  is  young,  he  is  wealthy, 
he  is  beautiful." 

"What  stuff  are  you  talking,  sir.'"  cried  the  old  lady.  "What 
has  happened  ?  " 

"  Miss  Amory  has  jilted  me,  and  accepted  Henry  Foker,  Esq.  I 
found  her  warbling  ditties  to  him  as  he  lay  at  her  feet :  presents  had 
been  accepted,  vows  exchanged,  these  ten  days.  Harry  was  old 
Mrs.  Planter's  rheumatism,  which  kept  dearest  Laura  out  of  the 
house.  He  is  the  most  constant  and  generous  of  men.  He  has 
promised  the  living  of  Logwood  to  Lady  Ann's  husband,  and  given 
her  a  splendid  present  on  her  marriage  ;  and  he  rushed  to  fling  himself 
at  Blanche's  feet  the  instant  he  found  he  was  free." 

"  And  so,  as  you  can't  get  Blanche,  you  put  up  with  Laura  :  is  that 
it,  sir  ? "  asked  the  old  lady. 

"  He  acted  nobly,"  Laura  said. 

"  I  acted  as  she  bade  me,"  said  Pen.  "  Never  mind  how,  Lady 
Rockminster;  but  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  power.  And  if 
you  mean  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  Laura,  I  know  it,  and  pray 
Heaven  to  better  me;  and  if  the  love  and  company  of  the  best  and 
purest  creature  in  the  world  can  do  so,  at  least  I  shall  have  these 
to  help  me." 

"  H'm,  h'm,"  replied  the  old  lady  to  this,  looking  with  rather  an 
appeased  air  at  the  young  people.  "  It  is  all  very  well;  but  I  should 
have  preferred  Bluebeard." 

And  now  Pen,  to  divert  the  conversation  from  a  theme  which  was 
growing  painful  to  some  parties  present,  bethought  him  of  his  interview 
with  Huxter  in  the  morning,  and  of  Fanny  Bolton's  affairs,  which  he 
had  forgotten  under  the  immediate  pressure  and  excitement  of  his 
own.  And  he  told  the  ladies  how  Huxter  had  elevated  Fanny  to  the 
rank  of  wife,  and  what  terrors  he  was  in  respecting  the  arrival  of  his 


./20  PENDENNIS. 

father.  He  described  the  scene  with  considerable  humour,  taking 
care  to  dwell  especially  upon  that  part  of  it  which  concerned  Fanny's 
coquetry  and  irrepressible  desire  of  captivating  mankind ;  his  meaning 
being,  "  You  see,  Laura,  I  was  not  so  guilty  in  that  little  affair;  it  was 
the  girl  who  made  love  to  me,  and  I  who  resisted.  As  I  am  no  longer 
present,  the  little  Siren  practises  her  arts  and  fascinations  upon  others. 
Let  that  transaction  be  forgotten  in  your  mind,  if  you  please ;  or  visit 
me  with  a  very  gentle  punishment  for  my  error." 

Laura  understood  his  meaning  under  the  eagerness  of  his  explana- 
tions. "  If  you  did  any  wrong,  you  repented,  dear  Pen,"  she  said, 
"  and  you  know,"  she  added,  with  meaning  eyes  and  blushes,  "  that  / 
have  no  right  to  reproach  you." 

"  H'm!"  grumbled  the  old  lady;  "  I  should  have  preferred  Blue- 
beard." 

"  The  past  is  broken  away.  The  morrow  is  before  us.  I  will  do 
my  best  to  make  your  morrow  happy,  dear  Laura,"  Pen  said.  His 
heart  was  humbled  by  the  prospect  of  his  happiness :  it  stood  awe- 
stricken  in  the  contemplation  of  her  sweet  goodness  and  purity.  He 
liked  his  wife  better  that  she  had  owned  to  that  passing  feeling  for 
Warrington,  and  laid  bare  her  generous  heart  to  him.  And  she — very 
likely  she  was  thinking,  "  How  strange  it  is  that  I  ever  should  have 
cared  for  another;  I  am  vexed  almost  to  think  I  care  for  him  so  little, 
am  so  little  sorry  that  he  is  gone  away.  Oh,  in  these  past  two  months 
how  I  have  learned  to  love  Arthur !  I  care  about  nothing  but  Arthur ; 
my  waking  and  sleeping  thoughts  are  about  him;  he  is  never  absent 
from  me.  And  to  think  that  he  is  to  be  mine,  mine ;  and  that  I  am  to 
marry  him,  and  not  to  be  his  servant  as  I  expected  to  be  only  this 
morning ;  for  I  would  have  gone  down  on  my  knees  to  Blanche  to  beg 
her  to  let  me  live  with  him.  And  now — Oh,  it  is  too  much.  Oh, 
mother!  mother,  that  you  were  here!  Indeed,  she  felt  as  if  Helen 
were  there — by  her  actually,  though  invisibly.  A  halo  of  happiness 
beamed  from  her.  She  moved  with  a  different  step,  and  bloomed  with 
a  new  beauty.  Arthur  saw  the  change;  and  the  old  Lady  Rockminstcr 
remarked  it  with  her  shrewd  eyes. 

"  What  a  sly  demure  little  wretch  you  have  been,"  she  whispered 
to  Laura — while  Pen,  in  great  spirits,  was  laughing,  and  telling  his 
story  about  Huxter — "  and  how  you  have  kept  your  secret ! " 

"  How  are  we  to  help  the  young  couple  ?"  said  Laura.  Of  course 
Miss  Laura  felt  an  interest  in  all  young  couples,  as  generous  lovers 
always  love  other  lovers. 

"  We  must  go  and  see  them,"  said  Pen. 

"  Of  course  we  must  go  and  see  them,''  said  Laura.  ''  I  intend  to 
be  ver)'  fond  of  Fanny.  Let  us  go  this  instant.  Lady  Rockminstcr, 
may  I  have  the  carriage  ? " 


PENDENiYIS.  721' 

"  Go  now ! — why,  you  stupid  creature,  it  is  eleven  o'clock  at  night. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huxter  have  got  their  night-caps  on,  I  daresay.  And  it 
is  time  for  you  to  go  now.     Good-night,  Mr.  Pendennis." 

Arthur  and  Laura  begged  for  ten  minutes  more. 

"  We  will  go  to-morrow  morning,  then.  I  will  come  and  fetch  you 
with  Martha." 

"  An  earl's  coronet,"  said  Pen,  who,  no  doubt,  was  pleased  himself, 
"  will  have  a  great  effect  in  Lamb  Court  and  Smithfield.  Stay — Lady 
Rockminster,  will  you  join  us  in  a  little  conspiracy  'i " 

"  How  do  you  mean  conspiracy,  young  man  ?" 

"Will  you  please  to  be  a  little  ill  to-morrow;  and  when  old  Mr. 
Huxter  arrives,  will  you  let  me  call  him  in.''  If  he  is  put  into  a  good 
humour  at  the  notion  of  attending  a  baronet  in  the  countr}',  what 
influence  won't  a  countess  have  on  him.''  When  he  is  softened — 
when  he  is  quite  ripe,  we  will  break  the  secret  upon  him;  bring  in 
the  young  people,  extort  the  paternal  benediction,  and  finish  the 
comedy." 

"  A  parcel  of  stuff,"  said  the  old  lady.  "  Take  your  hat,  sir.  Come 
away,  miss.  There — my  head  is  turned  another  way.  Good-night, 
young  people."  And  who  knows  but  the  old  lady  thought  of  her  own 
eaily  days  as  she  went  away  on  Laura's  arm,  nodding  her  head  and 
humming  to  herself.'' 

With  the  early  morning  came  Laura  and  Martha,  according  to 
appointment ;  and  the  desired  sensation  was,  let  us  hope,  effected 
in  Lamb  Court,  whence  the  three  proceeded  to  wait  upon  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Samuel  Huxter,  at  their  residence  in  Charter-house  Lane. 

The  two  ladies  looked  at  each  other  with  great  interest,  and  not  a 
little  emotion  on  Fanny's  part.  She  had  not  seen  her  "  guardian,"  as 
she  was  pleased  to  call  Pen  in  consequence  of  his  bequest,  since  the 
event  had  occurred  which  had  united  her  to  Mr.  Huxter. 

"  Samuel  told  me  how  kind  you  had  been,"  she  said.  "  You  were 
always  very  kind,  Mr.  Pendennis.  And — and  I  hope  your  friend  is 
better,  who  was  took  ill  in  Shepherd's  Inn,  ma'am." 

"  My  name  is  Laura,"  said  the  other,  with  a  blush.  "  I  am — that 
is,  I  was — that  is,  I  am  Arthurs  sister :  and  we  shall  always  love  you 
for  being  so  good  to  him  when  he  was  ill.  And  when  we  live  in  the 
countr}',  I  hope  we  shall  see  each  other.  And  I  shall  be  always  happy 
to  hear  of  your  happiness,  Fanny." 

"  We  are  going  to  do  what  you  and  Huxter  have  done,  Fanny. — 
Where  is  Huxter  ?  What  nice,  snug  lodgings  you've  got !  What  a 
pretty  cat ! " 

While  Fanny  is  answering  these  questions  in  reply  to  Pen,  Laura 
says  to  herself — "  Well,  now  really !  is  ^/n's  the  creature  about  whom 
we  were  all  so  frightened  ?   What  could  he  see  in  her  ?   She's  a  homely 

46 


72^  PENDENNIS. 

little  thing,  but  such  manners !  Well,  she  was  very-  kind  to  him,— bless 
her  for  that." 

]\Ir.  Samuel  had  gone  out  to  meet  his  Pa.  Mrs.  Huxter  said  that 
the  old  gentleman  was  to  arrive  that  day  at  the  Somerset  Cofifee-House 
in  the  Strand ;  and  Fanny  confessed  that  she  was  in  a  sad  tremor  about 
the  meeting.  "  If  his  parents  cast  him  off,  what  are  we  to  do  ? "  she 
said.  "  I  shall  never  pardon  myself  for  bringing  ruing  on  my  'usband's 
'ead.  You  must  intercede  for  us,  Mr.  Arthur.  If  mortal  man  can,  you 
can  bend  and  influence  Mr.  'Uxter  senior."  Fanny  still  regarded  Pen 
in  the  light  of  a  superior  being,  that  was  evident.  No  doubt  Arthur 
thought  of  the  past,  as  he  marked  the  solemn  little  tragedy-airs  and 
looks,  the  little  ways,  the  little  trepidations,  vanities,  of  the  little  bride. 
As  soon  as  the  interview  was  over  entered  Messrs.  Linton  and  Blades, 
who  came,  of  course,  to  visit  Huxter,  and  brought  with  them  a  fine 
fragrance  of  tobacco.  They  had  watched  the  carriage  at  the  baker's 
door,  and  remarked  the  coronet  with  awe.  They  asked  of  Fanny  who 
was  that  uncommonly  hea\7  swell  who  had  just  driven  off  .■*  and  pro- 
nounced the  countess  to  be  of  the  right  sort.  And  when  they  heard  that 
it  was  Mr.  Pendennis  and  his  sister,  they  remarked  that  Pen's  father 
was  only  a  sawbones ;  and  that  he  gave  himself  confounded  airs  ;  they 
had  been  in  Huxter^s  company  on  the  night  of  his  little  altercation 
with  Pen  in  the  Back  Kitchen. 

Returning  homewards  through  Fleet  Street,  and  as  Laura  was  just 
stating  to  Pen's  infinite  amusement  that  Fanny  was  verj'  well,  but  that 
really  there  was  no  beauty  in  her, — there  might  be,  but  she  could  not 
see  it, — as  they  were  locked  near  Temple  Bar,  they  saw  young  Huxter 
returning  to  his  bride.  "  The  governor  had  arrived;  was  at  the  Somer- 
set Coffee-House — was  in  tolerable  good-humour — something  about 
the  railway:  but  he  had  been  afraid  to  speak  about — about  that 
business.     Would  Mr.  Pendennis  try  it  on  }  " 

Pen  said  he  would  go  and  call  at  that  moment  upon  Mr.  Huxter. 
and  see  what  might  be  done.  Huxter  junior  would  lurk  outside  whilst 
that  awful  interview  took  place.  The  coronet  on  the  carriage  inspired 
his  soul  also  with  wonder ;  and  old  Mr.  Huxter  himself  beheld  it  with 
delight,  as  he  looked  from  the  coffee-house  window  on  that  Strand 
which  it  was  always  a  treat  to  him  to  surv-ey. 

"  And  I  can  afford  to  give  myself  a  lark,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Huxter, 
shaking  hands  with  Pen.  "  Of  course  you  know  the  news  ?  We  have 
got  our  bill,  sir.  We  shall  have  our  branch  line— our  shares  arc  up, 
sir— and  we  buy  your  three  fields  along  the  Brawl,  and  put  a  pretty 
penny  into  yotir  pocket,  Mr.  Pendennis." 

"  Indeed !— that  was  good  news."  Pen  remembered  that  there  was 
a  letter  from  Mr.  Tatham,  at  Chambers,  these  three  days ;  but  he  had 
not  opened  the  communication,  being  interested  with  other  affairs. 


PENDENNIS.  723 

"  I  hope  you  don't  intend  to  grow  rich,  and  give  up  practice,"  said 
Pen.  "We  can't  lose  you  at  Clavering,  Mr.  Huxter;  though  I  hear 
very  good  accounts  of  your  son.  My  friend,  Dr.  Goodenough,  speaks 
most  highly  of  his  talents.  It  is  hard  that  a  man  of  your  eminence, 
though,  should  be  kept  in  a  country  town." 

"  The  metropolis  would  have  been  my  sphere  of  action,  sir,"  said 
Mr.  Huxter,  surveying  the  Strand.  "  But  a  man  takes  his  business 
where  he  finds  it ;  and  I  succeeded  to  that  of  my  father." 

"  It  was  my  father's,  too,"  said  Pen.  "  I  sometimes  wish  I  had 
followed  it." 

"  You,  sir,  have  taken  a  more  lofty  career,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"  You  aspire  to  the  senate :  and  to  literary  honours.  You  wield  the 
poet's  pen,  sir,  and  move  in  the  circles  of  fashion.  We  keep  an  eye 
upon  you  at  Clavering.  We  read  your  name  in  the  lists  of  the  select 
parties  of  the  nobility.  Why,  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  my  wife 
was  remarking  how  odd  it  was  that  at  a  party  at  the  Earl  of  Kidder- 
minster's your  name  was  7iot  mentioned.  To  what  member  of  the 
aristocracy,  may  I  ask,  does  that  equipage  belong  from  which  I  saw 
you  descend  ?  The  Countess  Dowager  of  Rockminster  1  How  is  her 
ladyship  ? " 

"  Her  ladyship  is  not  very  well ;  and  when  I  heard  that  you  were 
coming  to  town,  I  strongly  urged  her  to  see  you,  Mr.  Huxter,"  Pen 
said.  Old  Huxter  felt,  if  he  had  a  hundred  votes  for  Clavering,  he 
would  give  them  all  to  Pen. 

"  There  is  an  old  friend  of  yours  in  the  carriage — a  Clavering  lady 
too — will  you  come  out  and  speak  to  her .'' "  asked  Pen.  The  old 
surgeon  was  delighted  to  speak  to  a  coronetted  carriage  in  the  midst 
of  the  full  Strand :  he  ran  out  bowing  and  smiling.  Huxter  junior, 
dodging  about  the  district,  beheld  the  meeting  between  his  father  and 
Laura,  saw  the  latter  put  out  her  hand,  and  presently,  after  a  little 
colloquy  with  Pen,  beheld  his  father  actually  jump  into  the  carriage, 
and  drive  away  with  Miss  Bell. 

There  was  no  room  for  Arthur,  who  came  back,  laughing,  to  the 
young  surgeon,  and  told  him  whither  his  parent  was  bound.  During 
the  whole  of  the  journey,  that  artful  Laura  coaxed,  and  wheedled,  and 
cajoled  him  so  adroitly,  that  the  old  gentleman  would  have  granted 
her  anything;  and  Lady  Rockminster  achieved  the  victory  over  him 
by  complimenting  him  on  his  skill,  and  professing  her  anxiety  to  con- 
sult him.  What  were  her  ladyship's  symptoms  ?  Should  he  meet  her 
ladyship's  usual  medical  attendant.-*  Mr.  Jones  was  called  out  of 
town  ?  He  should  be  delighted  to  devote  his  very  best  energies  and 
experience  to  her  ladyship's  service. 

He  was  so  charmed  with  his  patient,  that  he  wrote  home  about  her 
to  his  wife  and  family;  he  talked  of  nothing  but  Lady  Rockminster 


7-'4 


PENDENNIS. 


to  Samuel,  when  that  youth  came  to  partake  of  beef-steak  and  oyster- 
sauce,  and  accompany  his  parent  to  the  play.  There  was  a  simple 
grandeur,  a  polite  urbanity,  a  high-bred  grace  about  her  ladyship, 
which  he  had  never  witnessed  in  any  woman.  Her  symptoms  did  not 
seem  alarming :  he  had  prescribed — Spir :  Ammon  :  Aromat :  with  a 
little  Spir :  Menth :  Pip :  and  orange-flower,  which  would  be  all  that 
was  necessary. 

"  Miss  Bell  seemed  to  be  on  the  most  confidential  and  affectionate 
footing  with  her  ladyship.  She  was  about  to  form  a  matrimonial  con- 
nexion. All  young  people  ought  to  marry.  Such  were  her  ladyship's 
words;  and  the  Countess  condescended  to  ask  respecting  my  own 
family,  and  I  mentioned  you  by  name  to  her  ladyship,  Sam,  my  boy. 
I  shall  look  in  to-morrow,  when,  if  the  remedies  which  I  have  pre- 
scribed for  her  ladyship  have  had  the  effect  which  I  anticipate,  I  shall 
probably  follow  them  up  by  a  little  Spir :  Lavend :  Comp : — and  so 
set  my  noble  patient  up.  What  is  the  theatre  which  is  most  frequented 
by  the— by  the  higher  classes  in  town,  hey,  Sam  ?  and  to  what  amuse- 
ment will  you  take  an  old  country'  doctor  to-night,  hey,  sir  ?" 

On  the  next  day,  when  Mr.  Huxter  called  in  Jermyn  Street  at 
twelve  o'clock,  Lady  Rockminster  had  not  yet  left  her  room,  but 
Miss  Bell  and  Mr.  Pendennis  were  in  waiting  to  receive  him.  Lady 
Rockminster  had  had  a  most  comfortable  night,  and  was  getting  on 
as  well  as  possible.  How  had  Mr.  Huxter  amused  himself?  at  the 
theatre  ?  with  his  son  ?  What  a  capital  piece  it  was,  and  how  charm- 
ingly Mrs.  O'Lear}'  looked  and  sang  it !  and  what  a  good  fellow 
young  Huxter  was !  liked  by  everj-body,  an  honour  to  his  profession. 
He  has  not  his  father's  manners,  I  grant  you,  or  that  old-world  tone 
which  is  passing  away  from  us,  but  a  more  excellent,  sterling  fellow 
never  lived.  "  He  ought  to  practise  in  the  country-  whatever  you  do, 
sir,"  said  Arthur — "  he  ought  to  marr)- — other  people  are  going  to  do 
so — and  settle.' 

"  The  ver>-  words  that  her  ladyship  used  yesterday,  Mr.  Pendennis. 
He  ought  to  marry.     Sam  should  marr>-,  sir." 

"  The  town  is  full  of  temptations,  sir,"'  continued  Pen.  The  old 
gentleman  thought  of  that  houri,  Mrs.  OXeary. 

"There  is  no  better  safeguard  for  a  young  man  than  an  early  mar- 
riage with  an  honest  affectionate  creature." 

"  No  better,  sir,  no  better." 

"  And  love  is  better  than  money,  isn't  it  ? " 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  said  Miss  Bell. 

"  I  agree  with  so  fair  an  authority,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  with 
a  bow. 

"  And— and  suppose,  sir,"  Pen  said,  "  that  I  had  a  piece  of  news  to 
communicate  to  you." 


PENDENNIS.  725 

"  God  bless  my  soul,  Mr.  Pendennis !  what  do  you  mean  ? "  asked 
the  old  gentleman. 

"  Suppose  I  had  to  tell  you  that  a  young  man,  carried  away  by  an 
irresistible  passion  for  an  admirable  and  most  virtuous  young  creature 
— whom  everybody  falls  in  love  with — had  consulted  the  dictates  of 
reason  and  his  heart,  and  had  married.  Suppose  I  were  to  tell  you 
that  that  man  is  my  friend ;  that  our  excellent,  our  truly  noble  friend 
the  Countess  Dowager  of  Rockminster  is  truly  interested  about  him 
(and  you  may  fancy  what  a  young  man  can  do  in  life  when  THAT  family 
is  interested  for  him) ;  suppose  I  were  to  tell  you  that  you  know  him. — 
that  he  is  here — that  he  is " 

"  Sam  married  !     God  bless  my  soul,  sir,  you  don't  mean  that ! " 

"  And  to  such  a  nice  creature,  dear  Mr.  Huxter." 

"  Her  ladyship  is  charmed  with  her,"  said  Pen,  telling  almost  the 
tirst  fib  which  he  has  told  in  the  course  of  this  stoiy. 

"  Married  !  the  rascal,  is  he  ?"  thought  the  old  gentleman. 

"  They  will  do  it,  sir,"  said  Pen,  and  went  and  opened  the  door. 

Mr,  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Huxter  issued  thence,  and  both  came  and 
knelt  down  before  the  old  gentleman.  The  kneeling  little  Fanny  found 
favour  in  his  sight.  There  must  have  been  something  attractive  about 
her,  in  spite  of  Laura's  opinion. 

"  Will  never  do  so  any  more,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

"  Get  up,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Huxter.  And  they  got  up,  and  Fanny  came 
a  little  nearer  and  a  little  nearer  still,  and  looked  so  pretty  and  pitiful, 
that  somehow  Mr.  Huxter  found  himself  kissing  the  little  crying- 
laughing  thing,  and  feeling  as  if  he  liked  it. 

"  What's  your  name,  my  dear .? "  he  said,  after  a  minute  of  this 
sport. 

"  Fanny,  papa,"  said  Mrs.  Samuel. 


726 


PENDENNIS. 


CHAPTER   LXXV. 

EXEUNT   OMNES. 

OUR  characters  are  all  a  month  older  than  they  were  when  the 
last-described  adventures  and  conversations  occurred,  and  a 
great  number  of  the  personages  of  our  story  have  chanced  to  re- 
assemble at  the  little  country  town  where  we  were  first  introduced  to 
them.  Frederick  Lightfoot,  formerly  maitrc-if hotel  in  the  senice  of 
Sir  Francis  Clavering,  of  Clavering  Park,  Bart.,  has  begged  leave  to 

inform  the  nobility  and  gentry  of shire  that  he  has  taken  that 

well-known  and  comfortable  hotel,  the  "  Clavering  Arms,"  in  Claver- 
ing, where  he  hopes  for  the  continued  patronage  of  the  gentlemen  and 
families  of  the  county.  "  This  ancient  and  well-established  house," 
Mr.  Lightfoot's  manifesto  states,  "  has  been  repaired  and  decorated  in 
a  style  of  the  greatest  comfort.  Gentlemen  hunting  with  the  Dump- 
lingbeare  hounds  will  find  excellent  stabling  and  loose  boxes  for 
horses  at  the  '  Clavering  Arms.'  A  commodious  billiard-room  has  been 
attached  to  the  hotel,  and  the  cellars  have  been  furnished  with  the 
choicest  wines  and  spirits,  selected,  without  regard  to  expense,  by  C.  L. 
Commercial  gentlemen  will  find  the  '  Clavering  Arms '  a  most  com- 
fortable place  of  resort :  and  the  scale  of  charges  has  been  regulated 
for  all,  so  as  to  meet  the  economical  spirit  of  the  present  times." 

Indeed,  there  is  a  considerable  air  of  liveliness  about  the  old  inn. 
The  Clavering  arms  have  been  splendidly  repainted  over  the  gateway. 
The  coffee-room  windows  are  bright  and  fresh,  and  decorated  with 
Christmas  holly;  the  magistrates  have  met  in  petty  sessions  in  the 
card-room  of  the  old  Assembly.  The  farmers'  ordinarj-  is  held  as  of 
old,  and  frequented  by  increased  numbers,  who  are  pleased  with  Mrs. 
Lightfoot^s  cuisine.  Her  Indian  curries  and  mulligatawny  soup  are 
especially  popular:  Major  Stokes,  the  respected  tenant  of  Fairoaks 
Cottage,  Captain  Glanders,  H.P.,  and  other  resident  gentr)*,  have  pro- 
nounced in  their  favour,  and  have  partaken  of  them  more  than  once, 
both  in  private  and  at  the  dinner  of  the  Clavering  Institute,  attendant 
on  the  incorporation  of  the  reading-room,  and  when  the  chief  inhabit- 
ants of  that  flourishing  little  town  met  together  and  did  justice  to  the 
hostess's  excellent  cheer.  The  chair  was  taken  by  Sir  Francis  Claver- 
ing, Bart.,  supported  by  the  esteemed  rector.  Dr.  Portman;  the  vice- 
chair  being  ably  filled  by  —  Barker,  Esq.  (supported  by  the  Rev.  J. 


PENvENNIS.  727 

Simcoe  and  the  Rev.  S.  Jowls),  the  enterprising  head  of  the  ribbon 
factory  in  Clavering,  and  chief  director  of  the  Clavering  and  Chatteris 
Branch  of  the  Great  Western  Railway,  which  will  be  opened  in  another 
year,  and  upon  the  works  of  which  the  engineers  and  workmen  are  now 
busily  engaged. 

"  An  interesting  event,  which  is  likely  to  take  place  in  the  life  of 
our  talented  townsman,  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq.,  has,  we  understand, 
caused  him  to  relinquish  the  intentions  which  he  had  of  offering  him- 
self as  a  candidate  for  our  borough  :  and  rumour  whispers  "  (says  the 
"  Chatteris  Champion,  Clavering  Agriculturist,  and  Baymouth  Fisher- 
man,"— that  independent  county  paper,  so  distinguished  for  its  un- 
swerving principles  and  loyalty  to  the  British  oak,  and  so  eligible  a 
medium  for  advertisements) — "  rumour  states,"  says  the  C.  C,  C.  A. 
and  B.  F.,  "  that  should  Sir  Francis  Clavering's  failing  health  oblige 
him  to  relinquish  his  seat  in  Parliament,  he  will  vacate  it  in  favour  of 
a  young  gentleman  of  colossal  fortune  and  related  to  the  highest 
aristocracy  of  the  empire,  who  is  about  to  contract  a  matrimonial 
alliance  with  an  accomplished  and  lovely  lady,  connected  by  the 
nearest  ties  with  the  respected  family  at  Clavering  Park.  Lady 
Clavering  and  Miss  Amory  have  arrived  at  the  Park  for  the  Christmas 
holidays ;  and  we  understand  that  a  large  number  of  the  aristocracy 
are  expected,  and  that  festivities  of  a  peculiarly  interesting  nature  will 
take  place  there  at  the  commencement  of  the  new  year." 

The  ingenious  reader  will  be  enabled,  by  the  help  of  the  above 
announcement,  to  understand  what  has  taken  place  during  the  little 
break  which  has  occurred  in  our  narrative.  Although  Lady  Rock- 
minster  grumbled  a  little  at  Laura's  preference  for  Pendennis  over 
Bluebeard,  those  who  are  aware  of  the  latter's  secret  will  understand 
that  the  young  girl  could  make  no  other  choice,  and  the  kind  old  lady 
who  had  constituted  herself  Miss  Bell's  guardian  was  not  ill  pleased 
that  she  was  to  fulfil  the  great  purpose  in  life  of  young  ladies  and 
marry.  She  informed  her  maid  of  the  interesting  event  that  very 
night,  and  of  course  Mrs.  Beck,  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  every 
single  circumstance,  and  kept  by  Martha,  of  Fairoaks,  in  the  fullest 
knowledge  of  what  was  passing,  was  immensely  surprised  and 
delighted.  "  Mr.  Pendennis's  income  is  so  much ;  the  railroad  will 
give  him  so  much  more,  he  states ;  Miss  Bell  has  so  much,  and  may 
probably  have  a  little  more  one  day.  For  persons  in  their  degree, 
they  will  be  able  to  manage  very  well.  And  I  shall  speak  to  my 
nephew  Pynsent,  who  I  suspect  was  once  rather  attached  to  her, — 
but  of  course  that  was  out  of  the  question  ('  Oh !  of  course,  my  lady ; 
I  should  think  so  indeed ! ') — not  that  you  know  anything  whatever 
about  it,  or  have  any  business  to  think  at  all  on  the  subject, — I  shall 
speak  to  George  Pynsent,  who  is  now  chief  secretary  of  the  Tape  and 


72S  PEiWDENNIS. 

Sealing-Wax  Office,  and  have  Mr.  Pendennis  made  something.  And, 
Beck,  in  the  morning  you  will  carry  down  my  compliments  to  Major 
Pendennis,  and  say  that  I  shall  pay  him  a  \nsit  at  one  o'clock.  Yes," 
muttered  the  old  lady,  "  the  Major  must  be  reconciled,  and  he  must 
leave  his  fortune  to  Laura's  children." 

Accordingly,  at  one  o'clock,  the  Dowager  Lady  Rockminster 
appeared  at  Major  Pendennis's,  who  was  delighted,  as  may  be 
imagined,  to  receive  so  noble  a  visitor.  The  Major  had  been  pre- 
pared, if  not  for  the  news  which  her  ladyship  was  about  to  give  him, 
at  least  with  the  intelligence  that  Pen's  marriage  with  Miss  Amory 
was  broken  off.  The  young  gentleman  bethinking  him  of  his  uncle, 
for  the  first  time  that  day  it  must  be  owned,  and  meeting  his  new 
servant  in  the  hall  of  the  hotel,  asked  after  the  Major's  health  from 
Mr.  Frosch;  and  then  went  into  the  coffee-room  of  the  hotel,  where 
he  wrote  a  half-dozen  lines  to  acquaint  his  guardian  with  what  had 
occurred.  "  Dear  uncle,"  he  said,  "  if  there  has  been  any  question 
between  us,  it  is  over  now.  I  went  to  Tunbridge  Wells  yesterday,  and 
found  that  somebody  else  had  carried  off  the  prize  about  which  we  were 
hesitating.  Miss  A.,  without  any  compunction  for  me,  has  bestowed 
herself  upon  Harry  Foker,  with  his  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  I  came 
in  suddenly  upon  their  loves,  and  found  and  left  him  in  possession. 

"  And  you'll  be  glad  to  hear,  Tatham  writes  me,  that  he  has  sold 
three  of  my  fields  at  Fairoaks  to  the  Railroad  Company,  at  a  great 
figure.  I  will  tell  you  this,  and  more  when  we  meet ;  and  am  always 
your  affectionate — A.  P." 

"  I  think  I  am  aware  of  what  you  were  about  to  tell  mo,''  the  Major 
said,  with  a  most  courtly  smile  and  bow  to  Pen's  ambassadress.  ''  It 
was  a  very  great  kindness  of  your  ladyship  to  think  of  bringing  me  the 
news.  How  well  you  look!  How  ver\'  good  you  are!  How  ver>' 
kind  you  have  always  been  to  that  young  man  ! " 

"  It  was  for  the  sake  of  his  uncle,"  said  Lady  Rockminster,  most 
politely. 

"  He  has  informed  me  of  the  state  of  affairs,  and  written  me  a  nice 
note,— yes,  a  nice  note,"  continued  the  old  gentleman ;  "  and  I  find 
he  has  had  an  increase  to  his  fortune, — yes;  and,  all  things  con- 
sidered, I  don't  much  regret  that  this  affair  with  Miss  Amor>-  is 
manquee,  though  I  wished  for  it  once,— in  fact,  all  things  considered, 
I  am  very  glad  of  it." 

"  We  must  console  him.  Major  Pendennis,"  continued  the  lady ; 
"  we  must  get  him  a  wife."  The  truth  then  came  across  the  Majors 
mind,  and  he  saw  for  what  purpose  Lady  Rockminster  had  chosen  to 
assume  the  office  of  ambassadress. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  enter  into  the  conversation  which  ensued,  or 
to  tell  at  any  length  how  her  ladyship  concluded  a  negotiation,  which, 


PENDENNIS.  729 

in  truth,  was  tolerably  easy.  There  could  be  no  reason  why  Pen 
should  not  marry  according  to  his  own  and  his  mother's  wish :  and  as 
for  Lady  Rockminster,  she  supported  the  marriage  by  intimations 
which  had  very  great  weight  with  the  Major,  but  of  which  we  shall 
say  nothing,  as  her  ladyship  (now,  of  course,  much  advanced  in  years) 
is  still  alive,  and  the  family  might  be  angry;  and,  in  fine,  the  old 
gentleman  was  quite  overcome  by  the  determined  graciousness  of  the 
lady,  and  her  fondness  for  Laura.  Nothing,  indeed,  could  be  more 
bland  and  kind  than  Lady  Rockminster's  whole  demeanour,  except 
for  one  moment  when  the  Major  talked  about  his  boy  throwing  him- 
self away,  at  which  her  ladyship  broke  out  into  a  little  speech,  in  which 
she  made  the  Major  understand,  what  poor  Pen  and  his  friends  acknow- 
ledge very  humbly,  that  Laura  was  a  thousand  times  too  good  for  him. 
Laura  was  fit  to  be  the  wife  of  a  king, — Laura  was  a  paragon  of  virtue 
and  excellence.  And  it  must  be  said,  that  when  Major  Pendennis 
found  that  a  lady  of  the  rank  of  the  Countess  of  Rockminster  seriously 
admired  Miss  Bell,  he  instantly  began  to  admire  her  himself. 

So  that  when  Herr  Frosch  was  requested  to  walk  upstairs  to  Lady 
Rockminster's  apartments,  and  infomii  Miss  Bell  and  Mr.  Arthur 
Pendennis  that  the  Major  would  receive  them,  and  Laura  appeared 
blushing  and  happy  as  she  hung  on  Pen's  arm,  the  Major  gave  a 
shaky  hand  to  one  and  the  other,  with  no  unaffected  emotion  and 
cordiality,  and  then  went  through  another  salutation  to  Laura,  which 
caused  her  to  blush  still  more.  Happy  blushes!  bright  eyes  beaming 
with  the  light  of  love  !  The  story-teller  turns  from  this  group  to  his 
young  audience,  and  hopes  that  one  day  their  eyes  may  all  shine  so. 

Pen  having  retreated  in  the  most  friendly  manner,  and  the  lovely 
Blanche  having  bestowed  her  young  affections  upon  a  blushing  bride- 
groom with  fifteen  thousand  a-year,  there  was  such  an  outbreak  of 
!  happiness  in  Lady  Clavering's  heart  and  family  as  the  good  Begum 
I  had  not  known  for  many  a  year,  and  she  and  Blanche  were  on  the 
most  delightful  terms  of  cordiality  and  affection.  The  ardent  Foker 
pressed  onwards  the  happy  day,  and  was  as  anxious  as  might  be 
expected  to  abridge  the  period  of  mourning  v.hich  should  put  him  in 
possession  of  so  many  charms  and  amiable  qualities,  of  which  he  had 
been  only,  as  it  were,  the  heir-apparent,  not  the  actual  owner,  until 
then.  The  gentle  Blanche,  everything  that  her  affianced  lord  could 
desire,  was  not  averse  fo  gratify  the  wishes  of  her  fond  Henry.  Lady 
Clavering  came  up  from  Tunbridge.  Milliners  and  jewellers  were  set 
to  work  and  engaged  to  prepare  the  delightful  paraphernalia  of  Hymen. 
Lady  Clavering  was  in  such  a  good  humour,  that  Sir  Francis  even 
benefited  by  it,  and  such  a  reconciliation  was  effected  between  this 
pair,  that  Sir  Francis  came  to  London,  sate  at  the  head  of  his  own 


730 


PENDENNIS. 


table  once  more,  and  appeared  tolerably  flush  of  money  at  his  bilHard- 
rooms  and  gambling-houses  again.  One  day,  when  Major  Pendennis 
and  Arthur  went  to  dine  in  Grosvenor  Place,  they  found  an  old 
acquaintance  established  in  the  quality  of  major-domo,  and  the  gentle- 
man in  black,  who,  with  perfect  politeness  and  gravity,  offered  them 
their  choice  of  sweet  or  dry  champagne,  was  no  other  than  Mr.  James 
Morgan.  The  Chevalier  Strong  was  one  of  the  party ;  he  was  in  high 
spirits  and  condition,  and  entertained  the  company  with  accounts  of 
his  amusements  abroad. 

"It  was  my  lady  who  invited  me,"  said  Strong  to  Arthur,  under  his 
voice — "  that  fellow  Morgan  looked  as  black  as  thunder  when  I  came 
in.  He  is  about  no  good  here.  I  will  go  away  first,  and  wait  for  you 
and  Major  Pendennis  at  Hyde  Park  Gate." 

Mr.  Morgan  helped  Major  Pendennis  to  his  great-coat  when  he  was 
quitting  the  house;  and  muttered  something  about  having  accepted  a 
temporary  engagement  with  the  Clavering  family. 

"  I  have  got  a  paper  of  yours,  Mr.  Morgan,"  said  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Which  you  can  show,  if  you  please,  to  Sir  Francis,  sir,  and  perfectly 
welcome,"  said  Mr.  Morgan,  with  downcast  eyes.  "  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  Major  Pendennis,  and  if  I  can  pay  you  for  all  your  kind- 
ness I  will." 

Arthur  overheard  the  sentence,  and  seeing  the  look  of  hatred  which 
accompanied  it,  suddenly  cried  out  that  he  had  forgotten  his  handker- 
chief, and  ran  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room  again.  Foker  was  still 
there  :  still  lingering  about  his  siren.  Pen  gave  the  siren  a  look  full  of 
meaning,  and  we  suppose  that  the  siren  understood  meaning  looks,  for 
when,  after  finding  the  veracious  handkerchief  of  which  he  came  in 
quest,  he  once  more  went  out,  the  siren,  with  a  laughing  voice  said, 
"  Oh,  Arthur — Mr.  Pendennis — I  want  you  to  tell  dear  Laura  some- 
thing ! "  and  she  came  out  to  the  door. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  shutting  the  door. 

"Haveyou  told  Han-)'?  Doyou  know  that  villain  Morgan  knows  all?"' 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said. 

"  Have  you  told  Harr>'  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  she  said.     "  You  won't  betray  me  ?'' 

"  Morgan  will,"  said  Pen. 

"  No,  he  won't,"  said  Blanche.  "  I  have  promised  him — nimporte. 
Wait  until  after  our  marriage— Oh,  until  after  our  marriage — Oh,  how 
wretched  I  am!"  said  the  girl,  who  had  been  all  smiles,  and  gi-ace,  and 
gaiety  during  the  evening. 

Arthur  said,  "  I  beg  and  implore  you  to  tell  Harr>-.  Tell  him  now. 
It  is  no  fault  of  yours.  He  will  pardon  you  anything.  Tell  him  to-night." 

"  And  give  her  this— 7/  est  /J— with  my  love,  please ;  and  I  beg 
your  pardon  for  calhng  you  back;   and  if  she  will   be   at    Madame 


PENDENNIS.  731 

Crinoline's  at  half-past  three,  and  if  Lady  Rockmrnster  can  spare 
her,  I  should  so  like  to  drive  with  her  in  the  Park ;  "  and  she  went  in, 
singing  and  kissing  her  little  hand,  as  Morgan  the  velvet-footed  came 
up  the  carpeted  stair. 

Pen  heard  Blanche's  piano  breaking  out  into  brilliant  music  as  he 
went  down  to  join  his  uncle ;  and  they  walked  away  together.  Arthur 
briefly  told  him  what  he  had  done.  "  What  was  to  be  done .'' "  he  asked. 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  begad .''"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "  What  is 
to  be  done,  but  to  leave  it  alone  ?  Begad,  let  us  be  thankful,"  said  the 
old  fellow,  with  a  shudder,  "  that  we  are  out  of  the  business,  and  leave 
it  to  those  it  concerns." 

"  I  hope  to  Heaven  she'll  tell  him,"  said  Pen. 

"  Begad,  she'll  take  her  own  course,"  said  the  old  man.  "  Miss 
Amory  is  a  dev'Iish  wideawake  girl,  sir,  and  must  play  her  own  cards ; 
and  I'm  doosid  glad  you  are  out  of  it — doosid  glad,  begad.  Who's  this 
smoking .''  Oh,  it's  Mr.  Strong  again.  He  wants  to  put  in  his  oar,  1 
suppose.     I  tell  you,  don't  meddle  in  the  business,  Arthur." 

Strong  began  once  or  twice,  as  if  to  converse  upon  the  subject,  but 
the  Major  would  not  hear  a  word.  He  remarked  on  the  moonlight  on 
Apsley  House,  the  weather,  the  cab-stands — anything  but  that  subject. 
He  bowed  stiffly  to  Strong,  and  clung  to  his  nephew's  arm,  as  he  turned 
down  St.  James's  Street,  and  again  cautioned  Pen  to  leave  the  affair 
alone.  "  It  had  like  to  have  cost  you  so  much,  sir,  that  you  may  take 
my  advice,"  he  said. 

When  Arthur  came  out  of  the  hotel,  Strong's  cloak  and  cigar  were 
visible  a  few  doors  ofl".  The  jolly  Chevalier  laughed  as  they  met.  "  I'm 
an  old  soldier,  too,"  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  Pendennis.  I 
have  heard  of  all  that  has  happened,  and  all  the  chops  and  changes 
that  have  taken  place  during  my  absence.  I  congratulate  you  on  your 
marriage,  and  I  congratulate  you  on  your  escape,  too — you  understand 
me.  It  was  not  my  business  to  speak,  but  I  know  this,  that  a  certain 
party  is  as  arrant  a  little — well — well,  never  mind  what.  You  acted  like 
a  man  and  a  trump,  and  are  well  out  of  it." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  complain,"  said  Pen.  "  I  went  back  to  beg 
and  entreat  poor  Blanche  to  tell  Foker  all :  I  hope,  for  her  sake,  she 
will ;  but  I  fear  not.    There  is  but  one  policy.  Strong,  there  is  but  one." 

"  And  lucky  he  that  can  stick  to  it,"  said  the  Chevalier.  "  That 
ascal  Morgan  means  mischief  He  has  been  lurking  about,  our 
Chambers  for  the  last  two  months :  he  has  found  out  that  poor  mad 
ievil  Amor/s  secret.  He  has  been  trying  to  discover  where  he  was  :  he 
las  been  pumping  Mr.  Bolton,  and  making  old  Costigan  drunk  several 
imes.  He  bribed  the  Inn  porter  to  tell  him  when  we  came  back :  and 
le  has  got  into  Clavering's  service  on  the  strength  of  his  information, 
ie  will  get  very  good  pay  for  it,  mark  my  words,  the  villain." 


732  PENDENNIS. 

"  Where  is  Amory  ? "  asked  Pen. 

"  At  Boulogne,  I  believe.  I  left  him  there,  and  warned  him  not  to 
come  back.  I  have  broken  with  him,  after  a  desperate  quarrel,  such 
as  one  might  have  expected  with  such  a  madman.  And  I'm  glad  to 
think  that  he  is  in  my  debt  now,  and  that  I  have  been  the  means  of 
keeping  him  out  of  more  harms  than  one." 

"  He  has  lost  all  his  winnings,  I  suppose  ? "  said  Pen. 

"  No ;  he  is  rather  better  than  when  he  went  away,  or  was  a  fort- 
night ago.  He  had  extraordinary  luck  at  Baden:  broke  the  bank 
several  nights,  and  was  the  fable  of  the  place.  He  /uW  himself  there 
with  a  fellow,  by  the  name  of  Bloundell,  who  gathered  about  him  a 
society  of  all  sorts  of  sharpers,  male  and  female,  Russians,  Germans, 
French,  English.  Amory  got  so  insolent,  that  I  was  obliged  to  thrash 
him  one  day  within  an  inch  of  his  life.  I  couldn't  help  myself;  the 
fellow  has  plenty  of  pluck,  and  I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  hit  out.'' 

"And  did  he  call  you  out .''  "  said  Pen. 

"  You  think  if  I  had  shot  him  I  should  have  done  nobody  any 
harm?  No,  sir;  I  waited  for  his  challenge,  but  it  never  came:  and 
the  next  time  I  met  him  he  begged  my  pardon,  and  said,  *  Strong,  I 
beg  your  pardon ;  you  whopped  me,  and  you  scn-ed  me  right.'  I 
shook  hands:  but  I  couldn't  live  with  him  after  that.  I  paid  him 
what  I  owed  him  the  night  before,"  said  Strong  with  a  blush.  "  I 
pawned  everything  to  pay  him,  and  then  I  went  with  my  last  ten 
florins,  and  had  a  shy  at  the  roulette.  If  I  had  lost,  I  should  have 
let  him  shoot  me  in  the  morning.  I  was  weary  of  my  life.  By  Jove, 
sir,  isn't  it  a  shame  that  a  man  like  me,  who  may  have  h.id  a  few  bills 
out,  but  who  never  deserted  a  friend,  or  did  any  unfair  action,  shouldn't 
be  able  to  turn  his  hand  to  anything  to  get  bread  "i  I  made  a  good 
night,  sir,  at  roulette,  and  I've  done  with  that.  I'm  going  into  the 
wine  business.  My  wife's  relations  live  at  Cadiz.  I  intend  to  bring 
over  Spanish  wine  and  hams;  there's  a  fortune  to  be  made  by  it, 
sir, — a  fortune — here's  my  card.  If  you  want  any  sherry  or  hams, 
recollect  Ned  Strong  is  your  man."  And  the  Chevalier  pulled  out 
a  handsome  card,  stating  that  Strong  and  Company,  Shepherd's  Inn, 
were  sole  agents  of  the  celebrated  Diamond  Manzanilla  of  the  Duke 
of  Garbanzos,  Grandee  of  Spain  of  the  First  Class;  and  of  the  famous 
Toboso  hams,  fed  on  acorns  only  in  the  country  of  Don  Qui.vott. 
"  Come  and  taste  'em,  sir, — come  and  try  'em  at  my  Chambers.  You 
sec,  I've  an  eye  to  business,  and  by  Jove  this  time  I'll  succeed." 

Pen  laughed  as  he  took  the  card.  "  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall 
be  allowed  to  go  to  bachelors'  parties,"  he  said.  "You  know  I'm 
going  to " 

"  But  you  tmist  have  sherry,  sir.     You  must  have  sherry." 

"  I  will  have  it  from  you,  depend  on  it,"  said  the  other.    "  And  1  think 


PENDENNIS.  733 

you  are  very  well  out  of  your  other  partnership.  That  worthy  Altaniont 
and  his  daughter  correspond,  I  hear,"  Pen  added,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes ;  she  wrote  him  the  longest  rigmarole  letters,  that  I  used  to 
read:  the  sly  little  devil;  and  he  answered  under  cover  to  Mrs.  Bonner. 
He  was  for  carrying  her  off  the  first  day  or  two,  and  nothing  would 
content  him  but  having  back  his  child.  But  she  didn't  want  to  come, 
as  you  may  fancy ;  and  he  was  not  very  eager  about  it."  Here  the 
Chevalier  burst  out  in  a  laugh.  "  Why,  sir,  do  you  know  what  was 
the  cause  of  our  quarrel  and  boxing-match.''  There  was  a  certain 
widow  at  Baden,  a  Madame  la  Baronne  de  la  Cruche-cassde,  who  was 
not  much  better  than  himself,  and  whom  the  scoundrel  wanted  to 
marry ;  and  would,  but  that  I  told  her  he  was  married  already.  I 
don't  think  that  she  was  much  better  than  he  was.  I  saw  her  on  the 
pier  at  Boulogne  the  day  I  came  to  England." 

And  now  we  have  brought  up  our  narrative  to  the  point,  whither  the 
announcement  in  the  "  Chatteris  Champion  "  had  already  conducted  us. 

It  wanted  but  very,  very  few  days  before  that  blissful  one  when 
Fokcr  should  call  Blanche  his  own ;  the  Clavering  folks  had  all 
pressed  to  see  the  most  splendid  new  carnage  in  the  whole  world, 
which  was  standing  in  the  coach-house  at  the  "  Clavering  Arms  ; "  and 
shown,  in  grateful  return  for  drink,  commonly,  by  Mr.  Poker's  head 
coachman.  Madame  Fribsby  was  occupied  in  making  some  lovely 
dresses  for  the  tenants'  daughters,  who  were  to  figure  as  a. sort  of 
bridesmaids'  chorus  at  the  breakfast  and  marriage  ceremony.  And 
immense  festivities  were  to  take  place  at  the  Park  upon  this  delightful 
occasion. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Huxter,  yes  ;  a  happy  tenantry,  its  country's  pride, 
will  assemble  in  the  baronial  hall,  where  the  beards  will  wag  all. 
The  ox  shall  be  slain,  and  the  cup  they'll  drain  ;  and  the  bells  shall 
peal  quite  genteel ;  and  my  father-in-law,  with  the  tear  of  sensibility 
bedewing  his  eye,  shall  bless  us  at  his  baronial  porch.  That  shall  be 
the  order  of  proceedings  I  think,  Mr.  Huxter ;  and  I  hope  we  shall 
see  you  and  your  lovely  bride  by  her  husband's  side,  and  what  will 
you  please  to  drink,  sir  ?  Mrs.  Lightfoot,  madam,  you  will  give  to  my 
excellent  friend  and  body  surgeon,  Mr.  Huxter,  Mr.  Samuel  Huxter, 
M.R.C.S.,  every  refreshment  that  your  hostel  affords,  and  place  the 
festive  amount  to  my  account ;  and,  Mr.  Lightfoot,  sir,  what  will 
you  take  ?  though  you've  had  enough  already,  I  think  ;  yes,  ha." 

So  spoke  Harry  Foker,  in  the  bar  of  the  "  Clavering  Arms."  He 
liad  apartments  at  that  hotel,  and  had  gathered  a  circle  of  friends 
ound  him  there.  He  treated  all  to  drink  who  came.  He  was  hail- 
ellow  with  every  man.  He  was  so  happy  !  He  danced  round 
Vladame  Fribsby,  Mrs.  Lightfoot's  great  ally,  as  she  sate  pensive  in 
he  bar.     He   consoled    Mrs.  Lightfoot,  who   had  already  begun  to 


734  PENDENNIS. 

have  causes  of  matrimonial  disquiet  ;  for  the  truth  must  be  told,  that 
young  Lightfoot,  having  now  the  full  command  of  the  cellar,  had  none 
over  his  own  unbridled  desires,  and  was  tippling  and  tipsy  from 
morning  till  night.  And  a  piteous  sight  it  was  for  his  fond  wife  to 
behold  the  big  youth  reeling  about  the  yard  and  coffee-room,  or 
drinking  with  the  farmers  and  tradesmen  his  own  neat  wines  and 
carefully-selected  stock  of  spirits. 

When  he  could  find  time,  Mr.  Morgan  the  butler  came  from  the 
Park,  and  took  a  glass  at  the  expense  of  the  landlord  of  the  "  Clavering 
Arms."  He  watched  poor  Lightfoot  s  tipsy  vagaries  with  savage  sneers. 
Mrs.  Lightfoot  felt  always  doubly  uncomfortable  when  her  unhappy 
spouse  was  under  his  comrade's  eye.  But  a  few  months  married,  and 
to  think  he  had  got  to  this  !  Madame  Fribsby  could  feel  for  her. 
Madame  Fribsby  could  tell  her  stories  of  men  every  bit  as  bad.  She 
had  had  her  own  woes  too,  and  her  sad  experience  of  men.  So  it 
is,  that  nobody  seems  happy  altogether  ;  and  that  there's  bitters,  as 
Mr.  Foker  remarked,  in  the  cup  of  ever)'  man's  life.  And  yet  there 
did  not  seem  to  be  any  in  his,  the  honest  young  fellow  !  It  was 
brimming  over  with  happiness  and  good-humour. 

Mr.  Morgan  was  constant  in  his  attentions  to  Foker.  "  And  yet  I 
don't  like  him  somehow,"  said  the  candid  young  man  to  Mrs.  Light- 
foot. "  He  always  seems  as  if  he  was  measuring  me  for  my  coffin 
somehow.  Pa-in-law's  afraid  of  him  ;  pa-in-!aw's,  a-hem  !  nevermind, 
but  ma-in-law's  a  trump,  Mrs.  Lightfoot.' 

"  Indeed  my  Lady  was  ;  "  and  Mrs.  Lightfoot  owned,  with  a  sigh, 
that  perhaps  it  had  been  better  for  her  had  she  never  left  her  mistress. 

"  No,  I  do  not  like  thee,  Dr.  Fell ;  the  reason  why  I  cinnot  tell,'' 
continued  Mr.  Foker;  "and  he  wants  to  be  taken  as  my  head  ni.m. 
Blanche  wants  me  to  take  him.    Why  docs  Miss  .Amory  like  him  so  :  ' 

"  Did  Miss  Blanche  like  him  so.'"  The  notion  seemed  to  distur'> 
Mrs.  Lightfoot  verj'  much  ;  and  there  came  to  this  worthy  landl.n'.y 
another  cause  for  disturbance.  A  letter,  bearing  the  Boulogne  post- 
mark, was  brought  to  her  one  morning,  and  she  and  her  husband 
were  quarrelling  over  it  as  Foker  passed  down  the  stairs  by  the  bar, 
on  his  way  to  the  Park.  His  custom  was  to  breakfast  there,  and 
bask  awhile  in  the  presence  of  Armida  ;  then,  as  the  company  of 
Clavering  tired  him  exceedingly,  and  he  did  not  care  for  sportinc, 
he  would  return  for  an  hour  or  two  to  billiards  and  the  socict)'  of  the 
"  Clavering  Arms  ;  "  then  it  would  be  time  to  ride  with  Miss  Amorv. 
and,  after  dining  with  her,  he  left  her  and  returned  modestly  to  his  inn. 

Lightfoot  and  his  wife  were  quarrelling  over  the  letter.  Wh.it 
was  that  letter  from  abroad.''  Why  was  she  always  having  letters 
from  abroad  ?  Who  wrote  'em  ?— he  would  know.  He  didn't  bcltc\e 
it  was  her  brother.     It  was  no  business  <^\  His  ^     It  was  a  business  of 


t 


PENDENNIS.  735 

his  ;  and,  with  a  curse,  he  seized  hold  of  his  wife,  and  dashed  at  her 
pocket  f'^r  the  letter. 

The  poor  woman  gave  a  scream ;  and  said,  "  Well,  take  it."  Just 
as  her  husband  seized  on  the  letter,  and  Mr.  Foker  entered  at  the  door, 
she  gave  another  scream  at  seeing  him,  and  once  more  tried  to  seize 
the  paper.  Lightfoot  opened  it,  shaking  her  away,  and  an  enclosure 
dropped  down  on  the  breakfast-table. 

"  Hands  off,  man  alive!"  cried  little  Harry,  springing  in.  "  Don't 
lay  hands  on  a  woman,  sir.  The  man  that  lays  his  hand  upon  a 
woman,  save  in  the  way  of  kindness,  is  a — hallo !  it's  a  letter  for 
Miss  Amory.     What's  this,  Mrs.  Lightfoot.?" 

Mrs.  Lightfoot  began,  in  piteous  tones  of  reproach  to  her  hus- 
band,— "  You  unmanly  fellow !  to  treat  a  woman  so  who  took  you  off 
the  street.  Oh,  you  coward,  to  lay  your  hand  upon  your  wife !  Why 
did  I  marry  you  ?  Why  did  I  leave  my  Lady  for  you  ?  Why  did  I 
spend  eight  hundred  pound  in  fitting  up  this  house  that  you  might 
drink  and  guzzle  ? "' 

"  She  gets  letters,  and  she  won't  tell  me  who  writes  letters,"  said 
Mr.  Liglitfoot,  with  a  muzzy  voice ;  "  it's  a  family  affair,  sir.  Will  you 
take  anything,  sir  ? " 

"  I  will  take  this  letter  to  Miss  Amory,  as  I  am  going  to  the  Park," 
said  Foker,  turning  very  pale ;  and  taking  it  up  from  the  table,  which 
was  arranged  for'  the  poor  landlady's  breakfast,  he  went  away. 

"  He's  comin' — dammy,  who's  a  comin'  ?  Who's  J.  A.,  Mrs.  Light- 
foot— curse  me,  who's  J.  A.  ?  "  cried  the  husband. 

Mrs.  Lightfoot  cried  out,  "  Be  quiet,  you  tipsy  brute,  do ! " — and 
running  to  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  threw  them  on,  saw  Mr.  Foker 
walking  down  the  street,  took  the  by-lane  which  skirts  it,  and  ran  as 
quickly  as  she  could  to  the  lodge-gate,  Clavering  Park.  Foker  saw 
a  running  figure  before  him,  but  it  was  lost  when  he  got  to  the  lodge- 
gate.  He  stopped  and  asked,  "Who  was  that  who  had  just  come 
in  ?  Mrs.  Bonner,  was  it  ?"  He  reeled  almost  in  his  walk:  the  trees 
swam  before  him.  He  rested  once  or  twice  against  the  trunks  of  the 
naked  limes. 

Lady  Clavering  was  in  the  breakfast-room  with  her  son,  and  her 
husband  yawning  over  his  paper.  "  Good-morning,  Harry,"  said, 
the  Begum.  "  Here's  letters,  lots  of  letters ;  Lady  Rockminster  will 
be  here  on  Tuesday  instead  of  Monday,  and  Arthur  and  the  Major 
come  to-day ;  and  Laura  is  to  go  to  Dr.  Portman's,  and  come  to  church 
from  there :  and— what's  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  What  makes  you  so 
pale,  Harry  ? " 

"Where  is  Blanche.?"  asked  Harry,  in  a  sickening  voice — "not 
do^vn  yet  .^ " 

"  Blanche  is  always  the  last,"  said  the  boy,  eating  muffins ;  "  she's 


756  PENDENNIS. 

a  regular  dawdle,  she  is.  Wlicn  you're  not  here,  she  lays  in  bed  till 
lunch-time." 

"  Be  quiet,  Frank,"  said  the  mother. 

Blanche  came  down  presently,  looking  pale,  and  with  rather  an 
eager  look  towards  Foker;  then  she  advanced  and  kissed  her  mother, 
and  had  a  face  beaming  with  her  ver>-  best  smiles  on  when  she  greeted 
Harry. 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir.'"  she  said,  and  put  out  both  her  hands. 

"I'm  ill,"  answered  Harn.-.  "I — Ive  brought  a  letter  for  you, 
Blanche." 

"  A  letter,  and  from  whom  is  it,  pray  ?     Voyons^  she  said. 

"  I  don't  know — I  should  like  to  know,"  said  Foker. 

"  How  can  I  tell  until  I  sec  it .'"  asked  Blanche. 

"  Has  Mrs.  Bonner  not  told  you  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  shaking  voice ; — 
"there's  some  secret.     Yon  give  her  the  letter.  Lady  Clavering." 

Lady  Clavering,  wondering,  took  the  letter  from  poor  Foker's 
shaking  hand,  and  looked  at  the  superscription.  As  she  looked  at  it, 
she  too  began  to  shake  in  ever>-  limb,  and  with  a  scared  face  she  dropped 
the  letter,  and  running  up  to  Frank,  clutched  the  boy  to  her,  and  burst 
out  with  a  sob — "  Take  that  away — it's  impossible,  it's  impossible."' 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  cried  Blanche,  with  rather  a  ghastly  smile  ; 
"  the  letter  is  only  from — from  a  poor  pensioner  and  relative  of  ours." 

"  It's  not  true,  it's  not  true,"  screamed  Lady  Clavering.  "  No,  my 
Frank, — is  it,  Clavering  ?" 

Blanche  had  taken  up  the  letter,  and  was  moving  with  it  towards 
the  fire,  but  Foker  ran  to  her  and  clutched  her  arm — "  I  must  sec  that 
letter,"  he  said ;  "  give  it  me.     You  sha'n't  burn  it.'' 

"  You — you  shall  not  treat  Miss  Amor>'  so  in  my  house,"'  cried  the 
Baronet ;  "  give  back  the  letter,  by  Jove  I " 

"Read  it — and  look  at  her,"  Blanche  cried,  pointing  to  her  mother; 
"  it — it  was  for  her  I  kept  the  secret  I     Read  it,  cruel  man  I " 

And  Foker  opened  and  read  the  letter : — 

"I  H.A.VE  not  wrote,  my  darling  Bessy,  this  three  weeks;  but  this  is  to  give 
her  2k  father  s  blessing,  and  1  shall  come  down  pretty  soon  as  quick  as  my  note, 
and  intend  to  see  the  ceremony,  and  my  son-in-laxc.  I  shall  put  up  at  Bonner's. 
I  have  had  a  pleasant  autumn,  and  am  staying  here  at  an  hotel  where  there  is 
good  company,  and  which  is  kep'  in  good  style.  I  don't  know  whether  I  quite 
approve  of  your  throwing  over  Mr.  P.  for  Mr.  F.,  and  don't  think  Foker's 
such  a  pretty  name,  and  from  your  account  of  him  he  seems  a  muff,  and  net  a 
beauty.  But  he  has  got  the  roTidy,  which  is  the  thing.  So  no  more,  my  dear 
little  Betsy,  till  we  meet,  from  your  affectionate  father, 

"J.   .\MORY  AlTAMONT." 

"  Read  it.  Lady  Clavering ;  it  is  too  late  to  keep  it  from  you  now." 
said  poor  Foker;   and  the  distracted  woman,  having  cast  her  eyes 


PEN  DENNIS.  y  -^7 

over  it,  again  broke  out  into  hysterical  screams,  and  convulsively 
grasped  her  son. 

'*  They  have  made  an  outcast  of  you,  my  boy,"  she  said.  "  They've 
dishonoured  your  old  mother;  but  I'm  innocent,  Frank;  before  God, 
I'm  innocent.    I  didn't  know  this,  Mr.  Foker;  indeed,  indeed,  I  didn't." 

"  I'm  sure  you  didn't,"  said  Foker,  going  up  and  kissing  her  hand. 

"  Generous,  generous  Harry,"  cried  out  Blanche,  in  an  ecstasy.  But 
he  withdrew  his  hand,  which  was  upon  her  side,  and  turned  from  her 
with  a  quivering  lip.     "  That's  different,"  he  says. 

"  It  was  for  her  sake— for  her  sake,  Harry."  Again  Miss  Amory  is 
in  an  attitude. 

"  There  was  something  to  be  done  for  mine,"  said  Foker.  "  I  would 
have  taken  you,  whatever  you  were.  Everything's  talked  about  in 
London.     I  knew  that  your  father  had  come  to — to  grief.     You  don't 

think  it  was — it  was  for  your  connexion  I  married  you  ?     D it  all ! 

I've  loved  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  for  two  years,  and  you've 
been  plajing  with  me,  and  cheating  me,"  broke  out  the  young  man, 
with  a  cry.  "  Oh,  Blanche,  Blanche,  it's  a  hard  thing,  a  hard  thing !  " 
and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  sobbed  behind  them. 

Blanche  thought,  "  Why  didn't  I  tell  him  that  night  when  Arthur 
warned  me  ? " 

"  Don't  refuse  her,  Harry,"  cried  out  Lady  Clavering.  "  Take  her, 
take  everything  I  have.  It's  all  hers,  you  know,  at  my  death.  This 
boy's  disinherited." — (Master  Frank,  who  had  been  looking  as  scared 
at  the  strange  scene,  here  burst  into  a  loud  cry.) — "  Take  every  shilling. 
Give  me  just  enough  to  live,  and  to  go  and  hide  my  head  with  this 
child,  and  to  fly  from  both.  Oh,  they've  both  been  bad,  bad  men. 
Perhaps  he's  here  now.  Don't  let  me  see  him.  Clavering,  you  coward, 
defend  me  from  him." 

Clavering  started  up  at  this  proposal.  "  You  ain't  serious,  Jemima  ? 
You  don't  mean  that } "  he  said.      "  You  won't  throw  me  and  Frank 

over  ?     I  didn't  know  it,  so  help  me .     Foker,  I'd  no  more  idea  of 

it  than  the  dead — until  the  fellow  came  and  found  me  out,  the  d — d 
escaped  convict  scoundrel." 

"  The  what  ? "  said  Foker.     Blanche  gave  a  scream. 

"  Yes,"  screamed  out  the  Baronet  in  his  turn.  "  Yes,  a  d — d  run- 
away convict — a  fellow  that  forged  his  father-in-law's  name — a  d — d 
attorney,  and  killed  a  fellow  in  Botany  Bay,  hang  him — and  ran  into 
the  Bush,  curse  him ;  I  wish  he'd  died  there.  And  he  came  to  me,  a 
good  six  years  ago,  and  robbed  me;  and  I've  been  ruining  myself  to 
keep  him,  the  infernal  scoundrel !  And  Pendennis  knows  it,  and  Strong 
knows  it,  and  that  d — d  Morgan  knows  it,  and  she  knows  it,  ever  so 
long ;  and  1  never  would  tell  it,  never :  and  I  kept  it  from  my  wife." 

"And  you   saw  him,   and    you    didn't   kill   him,   Clavering,   you 

47 


738  PENDENiVIS. 

coward  ? "  said  the  wife  of  Amon'.  "  Come  away,  Frank,  your  father's 
a  coward.  I  am  dishonoured,  but  I'm  your  old  mother,  and  you'll — 
you'll  love  me,  won't  you  ? " 

Blanche,  e'plore'e,  went  up  to  her  mother;  but  Lady  Clavering 
shrank  from  her  with  a  sort  of  terror.  "  Don't  touch  me,"  she  said ; 
"  you've  no  heart,  you  never  had.  I  see  all  now.  I  see  why  that 
coward  was  going  to  give  up  his  place  in  Parliament  to  Arthur ;  yes, 
that  coward !  and  why  you  threatened  that  you  would  make  me  give 
you  half  Frank's  fortune.  And  when  Arthur  offered  to  marry  you 
without  a  shilling,  because  he  wouldn't  rob  my  boy,  you  left  him,  and 
you  took  poor  Harr)^  Have  nothing  to  do  with  her,  HarT\'.  You're 
good,  you  are.  Don't  marry  that — that  convict's  daughter.  Come 
away,  Frank,  my  darling ;  come  to  }our  poor  old  mother.  We'll  hide 
ourselves ;  but  we're  honest,  yes,  we  are  honest." 

All  this  while  a  strange  feeling  of  exultation  had  taken  possession 
of  Blanche's  mind.  That  month  with  poor  Harr>'  had  been  a  weary 
month  to  her.  All  his  fortune  and  splendour  scarcely  sufficed  to  make 
the  idea  of  himself  supportable.  She  was  wearied  of  his  simple  ways, 
and  sick  of  coaxing  and  cajoling  him. 

"Stay,  mamma;  stay,  madam!"  she  cried  out  with  a  gesture 
which  was  always  appropriate,  though  rather  theatrical ;  ''  I  have 
no  heart,  have  I  .'  I  keep  the  secret  of  my  mother's  shame.  I  give 
up  my  rights  to  my  half-brother  and  my  bastard  brother — yes,  my 
rights  and  my  fortune.  I  don't  betray  my  father,  and  for  this  I  have 
no  heart !  I'll  have  my  rights  now,  and  the  laws  of  my  country  shall 
give  them  to  me.  I  appeal  to  my  countr>-'s  laws — yes,  my  countr>-'s 
laws !  The  persecuted  one  returns  this  day.  I  desire  to  go  to  my 
father."  And  the  little  lady  swept  round  her  hand,  and  thought  that 
she  was  a  heroine. 

"You  will,  will  you  .'"  cried  out  Clavering,  with  one  of  his  usual 
oaths.  "I'm  a  magistrate,  and  dammy,  I'll  commit  him.  Here's  a 
chaise  coming;  perhaps  it's  him.     Let  him  come." 

A  chaise  was  indeed  coming  up  the  avenue ;  and  the  two  women 
shrieked  each  their  loudest,  expecting  at  that  moment  to  sec  Altamon 
arrive. 

The  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Morgan  announced  Major  Pcndenr.;< 
and  Mr.  Pendennis,  who  entered,  and  found  all  parties  engaged  in 
this  fierce  quarrel.  A  large  screen  fenced  the  breakfast-room  from 
the  hall;  and  it  is  probable  that,  according  to  his  custom,  Nir.  Moq^an 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  screen  to  make  himself  acquainted  with 
all  that  occurred. 

It  had  been  arranged  on  the  previous  day  that  the  young  peop'  ■ 
should  ride;  and  at  the  appointed  hour  in  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Fokcr 
horses  arrived  from  the  "  Claverin-r  Arms.''     But  Miss  Blanche  did  n.  •. 


PENDENNIS.  739 

accompany  him  on  this  occasion.  Pen  came  out  and  shook  hands 
Avith  him  on  the  door-steps ;  and  Harry  Foker  rode  away,  followed 
by  his  groom  in  mourning.  The  whole  transactions  which  have 
occupied  the  most  active  part  of  our  history  were  debated  by  the 
parties  concerned  during  those  two  or  three  hours.  Many  counsels 
had  been  given,  stories  told,  and  compromises  suggested ;  and  at  the 
end,  Harry  Foker  rode  away,  with  a  sad  "God  bless  you!"  from 
Pen.  There  was  a  dreary  dinner  at  Clavering  Park,  at  which  the 
lately  installed  butler  did  not  attend ;  and  the  ladies  were  both  absent. 
After  dinner.  Pen  said,  "  I  will  walk  down  to  Clavering  and  see  if  he  is 
come."  And  he  walked  through  the  dark  avenue,  across  the  bridge 
and  road  by  his  own  cottage, — the  once  quiet  and  familiar  fields  of 
which  were  flaming  with  the  kilns  and  forges  of  the  artificers  employed 
on  the  new  railroad  works ;  and  so  he  entered  the  town,  and  made  for 
the  "  Clavering  Arms." 

It  was  past  midnight  when  he  returned  to  Clavering  Park.  He  was 
exceedingly  pale  and  agitated.  "Is  Lady  Clavering  up  yet  ? "  he  asked. 
Yes,  she  was  in  her  own  sitting-room.  He  went  up  to  her,  and  there 
found  the  poor  lady  in  a  piteous  state  of  tears  and  agitation. 

"  It  is  I, — Arthur,"  he  said,  looking  in;  and  entering,  he  took  her 
hand  very  affectionately  and  kissed  it.  "  You  were  always  the  kindest 
of  friends  to  me,  dear  Lady  Clavering,"  he  said.  "  I  love  you  very 
much.     I  have  got  some  news  for  you." 

"  Don't  call  me  by  that  name/'  she  said,  pressing  his  hand.  "  You 
were  always  a  good  boy,  Arthur;  and  it's  kind  of  you  to  come  now, — 
very  kind.     You  sometimes  look  very  like  your  ma,  my  dear." 

"  Dear  good  Lady  Claveri7tg"  Arthur  repeated,  with  particular 
emphasis,  "  something  very  strange  has  happened." 

"  Has  anything  happened  to  him .?"  gasped  Lady  Clavering.  "  Oh, 
it's  horrid  to  think  I  should  be  glad  of  it — horrid ! " 

"  He  is  well.  He  has  been  and  is  gone,  my  dear  lady.  Don't 
alarm  yourself, — he  is  gone,  and  you  are  Lady  Clavering  still." 

"  Is  it  true,  what  he  sometimes  said  to  me,"  she  screamed  out, — 
"  that  he " 

"  He  was  married  before  he  married  you,"  said  Pen.  "He  has  con- 
fessed it  to-night.  He  will  never  come  back."  There  came  another 
shriek  from  Lady  Clavering,  as  she  flung  her  arms  round  Pen,  and 
kissed  him,  and  burst  into  tears  on  his  shoulder. 

What  Pen  had  to  tell,  through  a  multiplicity  of  sobs  and  interrup- 
tions, must  be  compressed  briefly,  for  behold  our  prescribed  limit  is 
reached,  and  our  tale  is  coming  to  its  end.  With  the  Branch  Coach 
from  the  railroad,  which  had  succeeded  the  old  Alacrity  and  Perse- 
verance, Amory  arrived,  and  was  set  down  at  the  "  Clavering  Arms." 


740  PENDENXIS. 

He  ordered  his  dinner  at  the  place  under  his  assumed  name  oi  Alta- 
mont ;  and,  being  of  a  jovial  turn,  he  welcomed  the  landlord,  who 
was  nothing  loth,  to  a  share  of  his  wine.  Having  extracted  from 
iMr.  Liglitfoot  all  the  news  regarding  the  family  at  the  Park,  and 
found,  from  examining  his  host,  that  Mrs.  Lightfoot,  as  she  said,  had 
kept  his  counsel,  he  called  for  more  wine  of  Mr.  Lightfoot,  and  at 
the  end  of  this  symposium,  both,  being  greatly  excited,  went  into 
Mrs.  Lightfoot's  bar. 

She  was  there  taking  tea  with  her  friend,  Madame  Fribsby;  and 
Lightfoot  was  by  this  cime  in  such  a  happy  state  as  not  to  be  surprised 
at  anything  which  might  occur,  so  that,  when  Altamont  shook  hands 
v.ith  Mrs.  Lightfoot  as  an  old  acquaintance,  the  recognition  did  not 
appear  to  him  to  be  in  the  least  strange,  but  only  a  reasonable  cause 
for  further  drinking.  The  gentlemen  partook  then  of  brandy-and- 
watcr,  which  they  offered  to  the  ladies,  not  heeding  the  terrified  looks 
of  one  or  the  other. 

Whilst  they  were  so  engaged,  at  about  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
Mr.  Morgan,  Sir  Francis  Clavcring's  new  man,  came  in,  and  was 
requested  to  drink.  He  selected  his  favourite  beverage,  and  the 
parties  engaged  in  general  conversation. 

After  awhile  Mr.  Lightfoot  began  to  doze.  Mr.  Morgan  had 
repeatedly  given  hints  to  Mrs.  f'ribsby  to  quit  the  premises;  but  that 
lady,  strangely  fascinated,  and  terrified  it  would  seem,  or  persuaded 
by  Mrs.  Lightfoot  not  to  go,  kept  her  place.  Her  persistence  occa- 
sioned much  annoyance  to  Mr.  Morgan,  who  vented  his  displeasure 
in  such  language  as  gave  pain  to  Mrs.  Lightfoot,  and  caused  Mr. 
Altamont  to  say  that  he  was  a  rum  customer,  and  not  polite  to  the  sex. 

The  altercation  between  the  two  gentlemen  became  very  painful 
to  the  women,  especially  to  Mrs.  Lightfoot,  who  did  cver>thing  t<i 
soothe  Mr.  Morgan  ;  and,  under  pretence  of  giving  a  pipe-light  to  the 
stranger,  she  handed  him  a  paper  on  which  she  had  privilv  wrirtr*^ 
the  words,  "He  knows  you.  Go.'  There  may  have  been  s 
suspicious  in  her  manner  of  handing,  or  in  her  guest's  of  re. 
paper :  for  when  he  got  up  a  short  time  aftenvards,  and  said  he  woulci 
go  to  bed,  Morgan  rose  too,  with  a  laugh,  and  said  it  was  too  early  to 
go  to  bed. 

The  stranger  then  said  he  would  go  to  his  bedroom.  Morgan  said 
he  would  show  him  the  way. 

At  this  the  guest  said,  "  Come  up.     I've  got  a  brace  of  -.  "      " 
there  to  blow  out  the  brains  of  any  traitor  or  skulking  spy."  .; 
so  fiercely  upon  Morgan,  that  the  latter,  seizing  hold  of  LighiK^^i  l>\ 
the  collar,  and  waking  him,  said,  "  John  .■^mor^•,  I  arrest  you  in  the 
King's   nami      Stand  by  me,  Lightfoot.      This  capture  is  worth  a 
thousand  poinds." 


PEiXDENNIS. 


741 


He  put  forward  his  hand  as  if  to  seize  his  prisoner,  but  the  other, 
doubhng  his  fist,  gave  Morgan  with  his  left  hand  so  fierce  a  blow  on 
the  chest,  that  it  knocked  him  back  behind  Mr.  Lightfoot.  That 
gentleman,  who  was  athletic  and  courageous,  said  he  would  knock  his 
guest's  head  off,  and  prepared  to  do  so,  as  the  stranger,  tearing  off  his 
coat,  and  cursing  both  of  his  opponents,  roared  to  them  to  come  on. 

But  with  a  piercing  scream  Mrs.  Lightfoot  flung  herself  before  her 
iuisband,  whilst  with  another  and  louder  shriek  Madame  Fribsby  ran 
to  the  stranger,  and  calling  out  "  Armstrong,  Johnny  Armstrong ! " 
seized  hold  of  his  naked  arm,  on  which  a  blue  tattooing  of  a  heart  and 
M.  F.  were  visible. 

The  ejaculation  of  Madame  Fribsby  seemed  to  astound  and  sober  the 
stranger.  He  looked  down  upon  her,  and  cried  out, "  It's  Polly,  by  Jove." 

Mrs.  Fribsby  continued  to  exclaim:  "  This  is  not  Amory.  This  is 
Johnny  Armstrong,  my  wicked — wicked  husband,  married  to  me  in 
.St.  Martin's  Church,  mate  on  board  an  Indiaman,  and  he  left  me  two 
months  after,  the  wicked  wretch.  This  is  John  Armstrong — here's  the 
mark  on  his  arm  which  he  made  for  me." 

The  stranger  said,  "  1  am  John  Armstrong,  sure  enough,  Polly.  I'm 
John  Armstrong,  Amory,  Altamont, — and  let  'em  all  come  on,  and  try 
what  they  can  do  against  a  British  sailor.     Hurray,  who's  for  it?" 

Morgan  still  called  out,  "  Arrest  him !  "  But  Mrs.  Lightfoot  said, 
"  Arrest  him !  arrest  you,  you  mean  spy !  What !  stop  the  marriage 
and  ruin  my  lady,  and  take  away  the  '  Clavering  Arms '  from  us  ? " 

"  D/d  he  say  he'd  take  away  the  '  Clavering  Arms '  from  us  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Lightfoot,  turning  round.     "  Hang  him,  I'll  throttle  him ! " 

"  Keep  him,  darling,  till  the  coach  passes  to  the  up  train.  It'll  be 
here  now  directly." 

"  D —  him,  I'll  choke  him  if  he  stirs,"  said  Lightfoot.  And  so  they 
kept  Morgan  until  the  coach  came,  and  Mr.  Amory  or  Armstrong 
went  away  back  to  London. 

iMorgan  had  followed  him :  but  of  this  event  Arthur  Pendennis 
did  not  inform  Lady  Clavering,  and  left  her  invoking  blessings  upon 
him  at  her  son's  door,  going  to  kiss  him  as  he  was  asleep.  It  had  been 
a  busy  dsy. 

We  have  to  chronicle  the  events  of  but  one  day  more,  and  that 
was  a  day  w^hen  Mr.  Arthur,  attired  in  a  new  hat,  a  new  blue  frock- 
coat  and  blue  handkerchief,  in  a  new  fancy  waistcoat,  new  boots,  and 
new  shirt-studs  (presented  by  the  Right  Honourable  the  Countess 
Dowa<^er  of  Rockminster),  made  his  appearance  at  a  solitary  break- 
fast-table in  Clavering  Park,  where  he  could  scarce  eat  a  single  morsel 
of  food.  Two  letters  were  laid  by  his  worship's  plate ;  and  he  chose 
to  open  the  first,  which  was  in  a  round  clerk-like  hand,  in  preference  to 
the  second  more  familiar  superscription. 


742  PENDENNIS. 

Note  I  ran  as  follows : — 

"Garbanzos  Wixe  Company,  Shepherd's  Inn. — M^onday. 
*'  My  dear  Pendennis,  —  In  congjatulating  you  heartily  upon  the  event 
which  is  to  make  you  happy  for  life,  I  send  my  very  kindest  remembrances  to 
Mrs.  Pendennis,  whom  I  hope  to  know  even  longer  than  I  have  already  known 
her.  And  when  I  call  her  attention  to  the  fact,  that  one  of  the  most  necessary 
articles  to  her  husband's  comfort  is  pure  sherry',  I  know  I  shall  have  her  for  a 
customer,  for  your  worship's  sake. 

'*  But  I  have  to  speak  to  you  of  other  than  my  own  concerns.  Yesterday 
afternoon,  a  certain  J.  A.  arrived  at  my  chambers  from  Clavering,  which  he 
had  left  under  circumstances  of  which  you  are  doubtless  now  aware.  In  spite 
of  our  difTerenje,  I  could  not  but  give  him  food  and  shelter  (and  he  partook 
freely  both  of ' .e  Garbanzos,  Amontillado,  and  the  Toboso  ham),  and  he  told  me 
what  had  hapj  .ned  to  him,  and  many  other  surprising  adventures.  The  rascal 
married  at  sbcicen,  and  has  repeatedly  since  performed  that  ceremony — in 
Sydney,  in  New  Zealand,  in  South  .\mcrica,  in  Newcastle,  he  says,  first,  before 
he  knew  our  poor  friend  the  milliner.     He  is  a  perfect  Don  Juan. 

"  And  it  seemed  as  if  the  commendatore  had  at  last  overtaken  him,  for,  as 
we  were  at  our  meal,  there  came  three  hea\'y  knocks  at  my  outer  door,  which 
made  our  friend  start.  I  have  sustained  a  siege  or  two  here,  and  went  to  my 
usual  place  to  reconnoitre.  Thank  my  stars  I  have  not  a  bill  out  in  the  world, 
and  besides,  those  gentry  do  not  come  in  that  way.  I  found  that  it  was  your 
uncle's  late  valet,  Morgan,  and  a  policeman  (I  think  a  sham  policem.in),  and 
they  said  they  had  a  warrant  to  take  the  person  of  John  .\rmstrong,  alias  Amor)-, 
alias  Altamont,  a  run-away  convict,  and  threatened  to  break  in  the  oak. 

"Now,  sir,  in  my  own  d.iys  of  captivity  I  had  discovered  a  little  p.-i-^  .: 
along  the  gutter  into  Bows  and  Costigan's  window,  and  I  sent  Jack  Alias  al  :  .; 
this  covered-way,  not  without  terror  of  his  life,  for  it  had  grown  ver)'  cranky  ; 
and  then,  after  a  parley,  let  in  Mons.  Morgan  and  friend. 

"  The  rascal  had  been  instructed  about  that  covered-way,  for  he  made  for 
the  room  instantly,  telling  the  policeman  to  go  downstairs  and  keep  the  gate  ; 
and  he  charged  up  my  little  staircase  as  if  he  had  known  the  premises.  .\s  he 
was  going  out  of  the  window  we  heard  a  voice  that  you  know,  from  Bo«-s's 
garret,  saying,  '  Who  are  ye,  and  hwhat  the  divvle  arc  ye  at?  You'd  betthcr 
leave  the  gutther;  bcdad,  there's  a  m;in  killed  himself  already.' 

"  And  as  Morgan,  crossing  over  and  looking  into  the  darkness,  was  tr\-ing  to 
see  whether  this  awful  news  was  true,  he  took  a  broom-stick,  and  with  a  vigorous 
dash  broke  down  the  pipe  of  communication— and  told  me  this  morning,  with 
great  glee,  that  he  was  reminded  of  that  '  aisy  sthratagcm  by  remembering  his 
dorling  Emilie,  when  she  acted  the  pawTt  of  Cora  in  the  Pice— .and  by  the 
bridge  in  PezawTO,  bedad.'  I  wish  that  scoundrel  Morgan  had  been  on  the 
bridge  when  the  General  tried  his  '  sthratagem.' 

"If  I  hear  more  of  Jack  Alias,  I  will  tell  you.     He  has  got  plenty  of 
money  still,  and  I  wanted  him  to  send  some  to  our  poor  friend  the  milliner ; 
but  the  scoundrel  laughed  and  said,  he  had  no  more  than  he  wante-l.  '    • 
offered  to  give  anybody  a  lock  of  his  hair.     Farewell— be  happy !  and  b 
me  always  truly  yours,  E.  Stron- 


PENDENNIS.  743 

"  And  now  for  the  other  letter,"  said  Pen.  "  Dear  old  fellow  ! "  and 
he  kissed  the  seal  before  he  broke  it. 

"  Warrington,  Tuesday. 
"  I  must  not  let  the  day  pass  over  without  saying  a  God  bless  you,  to  both 
of  you.  May  Heaven  make  you  happy,  dear  Arthur,  and  dear  Laura.  I 
think,  Ten,  that  you  have  got  the  best  wife  in  the  world ;  and  pray  that,  as 
such,  you  will  cherish  her  and  tend  her.  The  chambers  will  be  lonely  without 
you,  dear  Pen ;  but  if  I  am  tired,  I  shall  have  a  new  home  to  go  to  in  the 
house  of  my  brother  and  sister.  I  am  practising  in  the  nursery  here,  in  order 
to  prepare  for  the  part  of  Uncle  George.  Farewell !  make  your  wedding  tour, 
and  come  back  to  your  affectionate  G.  W." 

Pendennis  and  his  wife  read  this  letter  together  after  Doctor  Port- 
man's  breakfast  was  over,  and  the  guests  were  gone;  and  when  the 
carriage  was  waiting  amidst  the  crowd  at  the  Doctor's  outer  gate. 
But  the  wicket  led  into  the  churchyard  of  St.  Mary's,  where  the  bells 
were  pealing  with  all  their  might,  and  it  was  here,  over  Helen's  green 
grass,  that  Arthur  showed  his  wife  George's  letter.  For  which  of  those 
two — for  grief  was  it  or  for  happiness,  that  Laura's  tears  abundantly 
fell  on  the  paper  ?  And  once  more,  in  the  presence  of  the  sacred  dust, 
she  kissed  and  blessed  her  Arthur. 

There  was  only  one  marriage  on  that  day  at  Clavering  Church :  for 
in  spite  of  Blanche's  sacrifices  for  her  dearest  mother,  honest  Harry 
Foker  could  not  pardon  the  woman  who  had  deceived  her  husband, 
and  justly  argued  that  she  would  deceive  him  again.  He  went  to 
the  Pyramids  and  Syria,  and  there  left  his  malady  behind  him,  and 
returned  with  a  fine  beard,  and  a  supply  of  tarbooshes  and  nargillies, 
with  which  he  regales  all  his  friends.  He  lives  splendidly,  and,  through 
Pen's  mediation,  gets  his  wine  from  the  celebrated  vintages  of  the 
Duke  of  Garbanzos. 

As  for  poor  Cos,  his  fate  has  been  mentioned  in  an  early  part  of 
this  story.  No  very  glorious  end  could  be  expected  to  such  a  career. 
j\Iorgan  is  one  of  the  most  respectable  men  in  the  parish  of  St.  James's, 
and  in  the  present  political  movement  has  pronounced  himself  like  a 
man  and  a  Briton.  And  Bows, — on  the  demise  of  Mr.  Piper,  who 
played  the  organ  at  Clavering,  little  Mrs.  Sam  Huxter,  who  has  the 
entire  command  of  Doctor  Portman,  brought  Bows  down  from  London 
to  contest  the  organ-loft,  and  her  candidate  carried  the  chair.  When 
Sir  Francis  Clavering  quitted  this  worthless  life,  the  same  little  inde- 
fatigable canvasser  took  the  borough  by  storm,  and  it  is  now  repre- 
sented by  Arthur  Pendennis,  Esq.  Blanche  Amory,  it  is  well  known, 
married  at  Paris,  and  the  saloons  of  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Mont- 
morenci  de  Valentinois  were  amongst  the  most  snivis  of  that  capital. 
The  duel  between  the  Count  and  the  young  and  fiery  representative  of 


744  PENDENXIS. 

the  Mountain,  Alcide  de  Mirobo,  arose  solely  from  the  latter  question- 
ing at  the  Club  the  titles  borne  by  the  former  nobleman.  Madame 
de  Montmorenci  de  Valentinois  travelled  after  the  adventure:  and 
Bungay  bought  her  poems,  and  published  them,  with  the  Countess's 
coronet  emblazoned  on  the  Countess's  work. 

Major  Pendennis  became  very  serious  in  his  last  days,  and  was 
never  so  happy  as  when  Laura  was  reading  to  him  with  her  sweet 
voice,  or  listening  to  his  stories.  For  this  sweet  lady  is  the  friend  ot 
the  young  and  the  old  :  and  her  life  is  always  passed  in  making  other 
lives  happy. 

"And  what  sort  of  a  husband  would  this  Pendennis  be?"  many 
a  reader  will  ask,  doubting  the  happiness  of  such  a  marriage  and  the 
fortune  of  Laura.  The  querists,  if  they  meet  her,  arc  referred  to  that 
lady  herself,  who,  seeing  his  faults  and  wayward  moods — seeing  and 
owning  that  there  are  men  better  than  he — loves  him  always  with  the 
most  constant  affection.  His  children  or  their  mother  have  never  heard 
a  harsh  word  from  him ;  and  when  his  (its  of  moodiness  and  solitude 
are  over,  welcome  him  back  with  a  never-failing  regard  and  confidence. 
His  friend  is  his  friend  still, — entirely  heart-whole.  That  malady 
is  never  fatal  to  a  sound  organ.  .And  George  goes  through  his  part  of 
godpapa  perfectly,  and  lives  alone.  If  Mr.  Pen's  works  have  procured 
liim  more  reputation  than  has  been  acquired  by  his  abler  friend,  whom 
no  one  knows,  George  lives  contented  without  the  fame.  If  the  best 
men  do  not  draw  the  great  prizes  in  life,  we  know  it  has  been  so  settled 
by  the  Ordainer  of  the  lottery.  We  own,  and  see  daily,  how  the  false 
and  worthless  live  and  prosper,  while  the  good  are  called  away,  and 
the  dear  and  young  perish  untimely, — we  perceive  in  ever)-  man's 
life  the  maimed  happiness,  the  frequent  falling,  the  bootless  endeavour, 
the  struggle  of  Right  and  Wrong,  in  which  the  strong  often  succumb 
and  the  swift  fail :  we  see  flowers  of  good  blooming  in  foul  places,  as, 
in  the  most  lofty  and  splendid  fortunes,  flaws  of  vice  and  meanness, 
and  stains  of  evil ;  and,  knowing  how  mean  the  best  of  us  is,  let 
us  give  a  hand  of  charity  to  Arthur  Pendennis,  with  .all  his  faults 
and  shortcomings,  who  does  not  claim  to  be  a  hero,  but  only  a  man 
and  a  brother. 


THE  END. 


Lcndcn  :  iriineJ  by  Smith,  Eluer  S.  Co  ,  Old  Bailey,  E  C 


3  1205  02091  7298 


IIMlSllllHHri  ^^^^°^'^^  '-^BMm  FACILITY 

A  A         001  423  563  4 


!^.i*li:|!j|iilii!!|liiiililiiiBi 


